Somewhere Around Nothing
by Velkyn Karma
Summary: The introduction of the Angel of Death to Eliwood's army has sent stirrings of unease and hatred through the camp. But when a deadly lightning storm means cooperation or destruction with the assassin, Matthew isn't entirely sure what to think. Complete.
1. Prologue: Apprehension

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

A fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Summary: New arrivals are always welcome in Eliwood's army, but the introduction of the Angel of Death has sent stirrings of unease and hatred through the company. Unfortunately, when it becomes a matter of life and death there is little time for such feelings, and when an unnatural lightning storm means cooperation or destruction with the former Fang member, Matthew isn't entirely sure what to think.

This time I decided to try the opposite tack. So we went from 'friendship' to 'absolutely hating one's guts.' Nice opposite, eh? Hope you enjoy! Note that this is only _loosely _based off of support conversations, and has no connection to _Knights of Cydonia, _my previous fanfiction.

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story.

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"Friends are sometimes boring, but enemies-never."  
-- Cooley

-----

"What a fantastic day!" breathed the Lady Lyndis—more commonly known as Lyn--with a satisfied sigh, as she took in the morning atmosphere.

The air was crisp and comfortably warm, with a tantalizing gentle breeze sweeping past the members of Eliwood's army as they finished with the final preparations before the day's journey. Tents had been folded and carefully packed away, food rations and supplies stored in Merlinus' supply train, weapons cleaned and readily serviceable, and mounts cared for, saddled, and ready for another day. Everything was perfectly in order, and the weather already promised by the day's beautiful beginning was enough to ensure another steady, reasonably paced journey until dusk.

Beside her, Eliwood nodded in agreement. "Excellent conditions," he observed, looking up into the sky. "We'll be traveling a long way, but it already looks so beautiful I doubt any member of this army will really mind." He brushed his red bangs lightly from his face, briefly exposing the golden circlet at his forehead before the wayward hair slipped straight back into place.

He sighed in momentary exasperation at this latest rebellion, and Lyn couldn't help but laugh. "You've been traveling too long," she observed with an amused chuckle.

"So I noticed," the new marquess responded, his voice sounding dry, but his smile showing otherwise. "Ah well. I'll have it cut at some point." He glanced back as the sounds of crackling, dry grass reached their ears, resting his gaze on an approaching red-and-gold armored knight—Kent.

"Is everyone all set to go?" Lyn questioned her knight, after greeting him with a warm good morning salutation.

"Yes, my lady," the red-haired cavalier responded, with a brief, somewhat formal nod. "You have but to give the word, and we will be prepared to leave."

"Excellent!" the Sacaen responded, pleased. "Then give the orders, and we shall set off immediately!" Kent bowed politely—he was ever the formal one, Lyn mused momentarily—and then turned to distribute the message, pausing only to drag his nearly ever-present emerald-armored companion away from a rather harassed-looking (and not completely awake) Rebecca.

The orders were passed out quickly, and within a half hour's time the army was moving like a well-oiled machine in a northeasterly direction. The mountains of Bern remained on their left flank, though they did not approach the looming monsters, instead remaining in the slightly hilly open ground where their army could move freely and quickly, with the Lords and Lady at the column's head. Standard patrols of mounted men and women, both in the air and on the ground, regularly circled the large moving group, checking the radius of the army within a few miles to ensure their safety from ambushes and other attackers; but beyond a quiet, isolated farm or hunting family they met no one.

Despite the business-like procedures, however, the majority of the army was undoubtedly in good spirits. Most laughed and talked as they walked or rode, sharing their experiences at home or in the latest battles with their friends and companions, discussing weapons techniques or magical remedies. Newcomers to the steadily growing army were regularly introduced to older members, making the well-working machine a tight, organized knot of fiercely loyal fighters. Sain approached nearly every woman in the army with his roguish smile and unabashed flirtatious charm, Kent following him to alternately lecture his exasperating friend and apologize to the women approached, and said women, now used to Sain's antics by far, found his episodes only mildly embarrassing and rude instead of outright scandalous and improper. It was an altogether thoroughly exciting event to those unused to the procedure.

One such newcomer found their travels especially exhilarating. Nino had only recently joined the army after her unfortunate discovery about the Black Fang and her mother, and though she had been with the company for nearly a week and a half now, she was still terribly excited by the structure of the group. The outright loyalty displayed every day so strongly amazed her—rarely had she seen anything of the sort in the Black Fang that her mother had created—and the friendliness of many of army members took her breath away. She was sure they would hate her because she had once been their enemy, but many of them were kind and understanding, a concept she enjoyed but was still struggling to comprehend.

Whatever friendly attentions she enjoyed in Eliwood's army, however, she was sure Jaffar was not receiving the same. The assassin was striding behind her silently—he always moved silently, even over dry grass or broken twigs or loose floorboards, a skill that she found amazing but a little bit scary sometimes—his cloak flickering behind him in the light breeze, his hands only inches from the dagger-sheathes at his hips at any given moment. He had rarely left her side since they had become a part of the company, and just as rarely never spoke unless she approached him first, which explained why she had never heard any complaints from him about his treatment or apparent reputation around the camp.

Yet despite his silence, she knew she was not imagining many of the dark glares thrown in her best friend's direction, and it worried her. Would they throw him out of the army? Would he be forced to leave her behind? She wouldn't allow that, she knew—if he had to leave, she would unquestionably go with him—but she loved it here so much, and everyone was always so friendly with her...

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, biting her lip as she tried to find a clearer, more comfortable thought. Beside her, Jaffar glanced down at her and spoke, and even his voice was soft from its lack of use and the nature of his profession. "Are you alright?"

"Oh...yes!" she responded brightly, a cheery smile on her face as she looked up at him. Even in the morning sun, his unusual cowl left his face half hidden in shades, concealing any telltale glitters from his eyes. He was probably impossible to see at night, she mused briefly. Probably terrifying, she realized, yet despite his profession and well-known deadly accuracy, as only an angel of death could have, she just couldn't look at him as anything other than Jaffar, her Friend.

He nodded quietly in response and turned his gaze back to the path, to the army members ahead, to the land surrounding them and swinging back behind him. He was always watchful, always aware, never leaving anything to chance or luck—that was efficiency, _brutal_ efficiency, just as he had been taught. It was because of this, of course, that he was well aware of his current standing and reputation in the army—at best he was ignored, at worst, outright hated. Already one of the Lords—Hector had been the name, he recalled--had been hostile to him when he was first introduced into the company, and many of his followers did nothing to disguise their dislike and outright hate either.

Yet this mattered little to Jaffar. He was a man of utter focus and mental discipline when it came to achieving a goal, and now his only goal was to protect Nino. She was too innocent, too pure to survive this ordeal with the Fang and with Nergal, not without somebody steeped in blood to keep her safe, keep her hands from becoming stained in crimson life. He would obey the commands of Lyn or Eliwood—both who had shown Nino exceptional kindness and care, even before she had joined them—but only because they were allies that Nino had chosen, and because they had her best interests in mind as well. If it meant putting up with threatening glares and outright hatred from his own allies, he cared little.

The two walked quietly at the back of the column for most of the morning, Nino occasionally skipping ahead to speak with one of her newfound friends, Jaffar following her utterly silently like a shadow, close enough to watch but not cause discomfort by his presence. Close to noon, just as the sun was beginning to reach its zenith, Eliwood called a momentary halt from the front of the column, allowing the members of the army to take a quick break. Most sat quietly on the hilly plains to rest their feet before continuing, while some approached Merlinus' large wagon caravans, each pulled by four large Clydesdale horses, to collect and distribute rations for a quick lunch.

The break was a quick affair, but an unquestionably cheerful one, and after roughly half an hour and passed the army continued its march towards the Shrine of Seals once more. Discussion, friendly chatter, and patrols began once again, yet had barely started before an unexpected detail began to make itself known.

Louise was the first to spot it. She and her husband had been marching towards the back of the company as well (indeed, Nino would occasionally run forward to talk excitedly with Pent), and by chance she had glanced over her shoulder to measure the distance they had traveled with a quick look. Her eyes were keen, however, and she immediately noted a dark black, rapidly approaching smudge in the skies behind them.

"Is that a storm, my Lord Pent?" she murmured in surprise, tapping him lightly on the shoulder and indicating the threatening patch of darkness that was coming towards them quickly. "I did not expect to see one hastening towards us so fast...today seemed like it would be beautiful for traveling."

"It did," her husband agreed, looking a little surprised as he narrowed his eyes in the direction of what was now most certainly dark, rolling clouds. He flipped his long, silvery hair out of his face and squinted for a better look, and then a frown slowly began to form on his face.

"What is it?" his wife questioned, frowning at him curiously, as she shifted the large hunting bow slung across her back into a more comfortable position.

"I wonder," Pent muttered to himself slowly, now looking about him as though watching the breeze pass. "The weather _should _have been perfect for traveling conditions. Anyone well versed in anima magics would be skilled enough to understand the currents of natural actions and reactions. I certainly sensed no coming storm, or I would have advised Lord Eliwood to seek shelter ages ago."

"Then you think this is unnatural, my Lord?" Louise asked, looking rather alarmed.

"It is highly probable," the Count of Reglay murmured, still frowning deeply. "I must speak to Lord Eliwood immediately." And, tossing his cloak over one shoulder to set it out of his way, he moved quickly to the front of the company, Louise following faithfully.

-----

The new marquess of Pherae was deep in conversation with Lyn and Hector, explaining laughingly one of his more humorous spars with his closest friend, when the urgent shout of "Lord Eliwood!" reached his ears. Turning, he spotted both the Lord Pent and Lady Louise hurrying towards him, expressions of deep worry and concern on their faces.

"Pray forgive me for interrupting," the silver-haired Lord bade, his voice still possessing a deep touch of concern, "but I have vitally important news. If you would look to the skies behind us, Lord Eliwood..."

Blinking his blue eyes in surprise, the red-haired army leader obligingly turned his head, glancing into the skies behind his army. Already the black clouds had drawn close enough to spot the beginning flickering of lightning in their depths, and still their speed had not slowed any.

"A storm?" he asked in surprise. "I never expected...I was sure that today would be--"

"You were absolutely right, Lord Eliwood," Pent interrupted grimly—there was little time for formalities. "Naturally speaking, there should have been no storm today. The conditions were most excellent for traveling. That--" he indicated the roiling black clouds with a dark look, "--is no natural storm. That has been summoned through highly powerful anima magics."

"Summoned?" Hector asked, sounding incredulous. "I know you magicians are powerful, but you can really summon something like _that_?"

"If one is strong enough," Pent responded crisply. "I advise that you move the army towards the mountains immediately, Lord Eliwood, and in all haste. There should be shelter aplenty to find there, enough to accommodate our now-vast size. I will explain the danger of this situation as we move."

"Of course," the Pheraen noble answered immediately, and calling several of his trusted lieutenants to his side, he immediately gave the orders to move at full speed for mountain shelter from the coming storm. Those on horseback began to circle the large army, spreading the word throughout the camp as fast as possible, and already several of the members on foot were turning towards the base of the mountains in a run, Merlinus urging his powerful horses speedily in the direction of retreat as well.

The Lords and Lady turned towards the mountains as well, falling into an easy and rhythmic loping run (though Hector clanked and crashed horribly in his heavy riding armor). Pent and Louise ran alongside, and as they streamed towards their shelter, the Mage-General provided an explanation of the unusual turn in nature.

"This storm is of a magical nature," he stated carefully, "not a natural one. Only a very powerful mage, studious in natural magics, can accomplish such a task; but if one is able and well versed, one can summon massive quantities of anima magic to them and create something as powerful as the storm approaching us."

"Then I assume it is very dangerous," Eliwood responded. It was a statement more than a question; one only had to look at the writhing black clouds and the lightning within them to know such a magical weapon was threatening.

"Exceedingly," Pent confirmed, flicking his long silver ponytail out of the way as he ran alongside. "Such spellcasting usually does not last more than a few hours—even a very powerful and skilled mage cannot hold and control such quantities of anima magics forever—but even the damage these spells can do in the span of a few minutes can be devastating." He grimaced slightly. "Such spells have a variety of names, of course, but most spell- and lore-books simply refer to the techniques as 'bolting.' The lightning emitted from such storms is enough to kill a man three times over if he is unfortunate enough to be hit."

Eliwood paled slightly and surveyed his running army quickly, judging the distance to the mountainsides and the shelter they would hopefully find there. They were still quite a ways away, and from the speed at which the storm was expanding, it was unlikely that they would escape before his army was enveloped in it. "What is the chance of being struck in a storm such as this?"

"Quite high," the Ertrurian responded, looking very grim. "The primary focus of the storm summoning is to harness very dense, powerful lightning bolts. Fortunately," he added, and the Lords and Lady looked over at him with hope, "there is a limit to the summoner's abilities with the storm, besides the length of time that it can be sustained. The storm cannot extend beyond a certain radius of the summoner—though admittedly, that radius changes depending on the level of power the mage in question possesses. And summoning such powerful magics will make it nearly impossible for this person to move, meaning that once the storm has expanded to its full radius..."

"Then it won't be able to approach much closer to us," Lyn finished, looking a little more hopeful. "So if we find shelter in the mountains on the outskirts of this radius, we can wait out the storm and make our escape."

"Exactly," Pent answered, nodding to her in agreement. "But that does require we reach shelter first." He looked over sharply at the expanding storm clouds, which were now nearly upon the tail of their army.

Eliwood looked pale but determined, and as Marcus galloped close he shouted new orders. "All mounted men and women are to immediately take a passenger and speed them ahead to the mountains! We need to get out of this storm as soon as possible _before _it arrives!"

The paladin sped off immediately to deliver orders to the other riders, but by then it was already too late; the storm clouds were now over the fringes of their army, and still rapidly expanding. The first bolts were already striking among their men, weak from their position on the outskirts of the storm, but still sending rock and dirt flying from their devastating impact.

Still, the knights of the horses, pegasi, and wyvern moved valiantly into action, helping their fellow company members swing or clamber up onto their mounts before winging them away (in some cases literally) towards the mountainside. Eliwood protested only momentarily as Marcus returned to pull his Lord up onto the horse behind him; beside the Pheraen knight, Lyn was already settled behind Kent, arms around him from behind as he kicked his horse rapidly forward, and Hector sat (grumbling—he was not particularly fond of horseback riding, despite his armor) behind Sain, who urged his horse on quickly despite the extra heavy weight the creature now bore. Pent and Louise had already been rescued by an efficient Fiora and Heath and were now soaring above them towards the shelter they now so desperately needed, and with the aid of the other mounted riders at least a third of their army had been rescued and were rushing towards their one hope.

The thunder boomed above them in an angry roar now, and the dangerous magical bolts struck the ground increasingly with unabated relentlessness. Those still running on foot towards the shelter—a good fifteen at least—began to swerve and zigzag in increasingly erratic patterns, hoping against hope that they would not be hit before they reached shelter. The air was growing so dark around them it was as though the midnight hour, the hour of death, had come upon them in midday, making it impossible to see where to place one's footing. Yet in a confusingly ironic contrast the bolts of light lit the hilly plains like a blast from the sun, and so those fleeing both hoped and feared for the next strike.

The riders had now reached the shelter of the mountains; without hesitation they hastily helped their passengers off their mounts and spun, immediately heading back into the thick of the storm to aid those still fleeing. The action was foolhardy, nearly begging for death—the flying wyvern and pegasi had to weave and dodge in between the lightning strikes, praying to the goddess that they would not be struck out of the air, and the heavily armored cavaliers on horseback were for all intents and purposes moving lightning rods with their added height on the horse and metallic armor. Yet they did not pause, merely dove, spun and ducked as they headed to the aid of those on foot, scooping them up to the safety of the steeds before spinning and running at an arrow-like speed back towards their shelter once more.

There were now five members of the army left on foot, running at all speed towards the shelter of the mountains even as the storm spread its chaotic booms and bolts all around them. Strangely, there was no lashing rain or pelting hail, as most would expect, but rather an almost unbearable heat that permeated the air, climbing in height every time a ravenous bolt struck. The blanket of nightmare-black darkness that enveloped them enabled them to see barely five feet away, and as the company members were spread out, most were unaware of the others' presence.

But Nino did not have time to think about how many others were out there, because Nino was absolutely terrified.

She was running as fast as she could, her short, trim indigo cloak billowing out behind her, tugging at her throat as she ran. Her throat—it was dry, hoarse from breathing as she struggled to keep running through the dimness, stumbling over the rocks and holes the erratic bolts had left behind.

The young mage was aware that Jaffar was with her, though she could not see him well; he was built to conceal himself in the darkness, and with the advance of such unnatural stormy blackness he had become all but invisible. But she knew he was there, because she had fallen twice in her mad rush to escape the storm, and both times he had pulled her up firmly and set her on her feet again, his soft whispering assurances and encouragements barely heard in the roar of the storm. She took comfort in his presence, but could not suppress the absolute fear caused by what she could now sense was anything but a natural storm.

Jaffar had surmised as much as well, and was acutely aware of the danger. He could have outstripped Nino easily, left her far behind in search of his own shelter, but even the slightest glimmer of that thought in his mind sent him grimacing in pure disgust at himself. He would not abandon Nino—_could _not abandon Nino—and so he stayed by her side, encouraging her as he sensed her energy and strength rapidly waning.

There was an almighty crack from behind them as a particularly murderous lightning bolt struck the ground where they had stood only moments before; the heat from the blast was so powerful it rolled over them in waves, singing stray hairs and threads from their cloaks. Loose dirt and rocks, some of them quite large, exploded from the point of contact and rushed outwards in all directions like shrapnel, and with a twinge of horror Jaffar suddenly recognized Nino's pained cry as she collapsed behind him.

Without hesitation he skidded and whirled, heading back to her, kneeling by her side. She was alive, he determined quickly with a wave of...relief, was it? He was still unfamiliar with _feeling_...but she had been injured by the sharp rocks the bolt had sent flying, and was cut badly in several places. He doubted she would be able to walk, and so without hesitation he scooped her up in his arms, wrapping her now-ripped cloak hurriedly about her to staunch the bleeding until they could reach the shelter.

"J-Jaffar?" she gasped in pain, confused and disoriented from the blast.

"I'm here," he responded immediately, taking off in a dead run towards the mountains. Nino was fairly small and light, fortunately, and he was only slowed slightly by carrying her as he moved. Unfortunately, he was forced to swerve and doge to avoid the devastating bolts and flying debris about them, and as a result was making little forward progress.

She groaned in pain again, curled a little closer to the safety of his chest, and whimpered softly, "Are...are we going to die?"

"No," the assassin responded immediately. "We will live. I promise you that, Nino—you will survive."

She nodded quietly, her body relaxing in exhaustion as he carried her, but before she could respond the two heard a cry of "Hello! Is anyone else out here?"

"Here!" Jaffar responded immediately, raising his voice to shout at a volume he almost never used. "There are two of us here!" Under normal circumstances, he would not rely on any form of help from others...but these were by far not normal circumstances, and Nino above all desperately needed the help.

There was a rhythmic thudding noise through the dark ahead of them, and then a green-and-gold armored knight on horseback galloped into view, glancing about hurriedly. Jaffar had seen him enough around the camp to realize that the knight's name was Sain, but apart from observing his carefree, flirting nature, he knew little of the cavalier.

The knight had spotted them by this point and hastily circled around them, slowing his horse alongside Jaffar's running form until they moved at an equal speed. He had headed back out into the teeth of the storm for the third time to search for the remaining company members on foot, along with Kent, Lowen, Marcus and Isadora, though he could not see where any of his fellow knights were in the pitch darkness. The pegasus and wyvern knights were unable to head back out into the storm to help with the search—it had become so dangerous to fly that Eliwood had expressly forbid it, lest he risk the lives of the flying knights and their mounts. But the cavaliers had been able to traverse the storm in slightly more safety, and were determined to return with _all _of their companions.

Now, close enough to see the two on foot, illuminated momentarily as they were by another bright lightning bolt, Sain could recognize that one was injured and another—the assassin that had caused so much of an uproar—was carrying her. Clearly, the assassin could not move at top speed with his burden, and the emerald knight was concerned for the both of them in the storm.

"Hand her up to me!" he roared over the rolls of thunder as he trotted alongside the running angel of death, extending his free hand for the injured girl. "Hurry!"

Jaffar hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the knight alongside him with a surveying look. He had long since learned to trust no one but himself, and handing Nino over to this man seemed to scream of foolishness. Not only that, but his mind was flashing to the scandalous behavior Sain had been exhibiting for the past week and a half, and he was hesitant to hand his charge over to a man like that.

But the emerald knight seemed earnest in his offer to help now, and his roguish grin was long since gone, replaced by a serious look as he stretched out his hand even further to help with transitioning the girl. And he _had _come back into the depths of the storm to try and rescue them, though he could have long since saved his life at the shelters he could no doubt reach by horseback several times over.

So it was that Jaffar hesitated only a second before shifting Nino in his arms, pushing the girl towards the knight trotting alongside them. She trembled, protested, afraid of leaving the safety she knew of absolutely in favor of this new and unfamiliar person, but with a few words from her friend she quieted and tried to help with her transition as best as possible.

The first time the assassin missed handing her over in time, and nearly dropped the poor girl as another flash of lightning thudded dangerously close to them. The knight ducked in his saddle to try and grasp at her, missed, and then straightened, outstretching his hand again. "Try again! Hurry!" he encouraged, flashing a quick, friendly smile for their benefit—nothing scandalous, simply rallying, yet it seemed to do wonders.

Grimacing slightly at his near mistake, Jaffar gathered his strength and hefted Nino with all the force he could muster. She nearly missed again, but the knight reached out and grasped a hold of her cloak and the back of her shirt, hauling her up into the saddle before him and securing her with a neat hold around her waist with his rein hand.

"Good!" the emerald cavalier called down to the assassin. "I got her!" The Angel of Death nodded grimly and continued to run alongside, zigging and zagging to avoid the deadly bolts around them, but was abruptly surprised when the rider offered Jaffar his hand as well. "Come, hurry!"

"You have no room for another," Jaffar called back sharply. "Leave!"

"She's light!" Sain called back, extending his free hand still further while the other secured both Nino and the reins. "You can hold on in back...hurry!"

The assassin hesitated. Truth be told, he had not expected to have help offered to _him,_ the one the camp loathed, so freely. Yet here was one of the knights, unquestioningly offering him what was perhaps his one chance to escape the storm alive. And if he rode, he could keep an eye on Nino as well, in case something else happened to her...

Mind set, the assassin reached out one of his gloved hands to grasp Sain's so that he could be swung up behind the knight on the horse--

There was a deafening crash almost directly beside them, and Sain's horse leapt aside on instinct alone almost immediately, darting back the way it had come in a frenzy. Jaffar gave a startled cry as he was pounded by an onslaught of debris, knocking his feet out from under him; he hit the ground, rolled several paces, and disappeared into the unnatural blanket of sheer darkness around them.

It was perhaps his cry that started Nino into awareness. She had never, in all her days, heard Jaffar utter so much as a hiss of pain or surprise, and to hear him call out like that...she sat up straight in the saddle, twisted to try and look around the cavalier she sat against, and peered through the darkness behind her.

"Jaffar!" she screamed, hoping against everything she could possibly think of that he would respond, come running out of the dark after her. "Jaffar!" She turned her attention to the knight, gazing up at him imploringly. "Go back! Please, we have to go back and find him!"

Sain grimaced. He had been trying, but they were nearly in the most deadly area of the storm, and the bolts were striking with murderous intentions. He was barely able to move forward, let alone go back into the thick forest of thunderbolts, and if he didn't move quickly the two of them would be lost to the storm just as the assassin had been. "I'm sorry," he called back loudly over the storm, "but we can't. We'll never find him, and if we don't leave now, we won't get out alive!"

"No!" Despite the futileness of the action, she beat at his emerald-and-gold armor with her delicate fists, crying in frustration. "You don't understand! He's my best friend, we have to go back and find him!"

"He would want you to escape," Sain called back, barely able to focus on the conversation when trying to avoid the bolts thundering down about them, and unconsciously he began reciting his own pacts with his best friend, Kent. "No matter what happens to him, he would want you to live, so it's your duty to get out of here!"

She fought against him for a while, twisted in the saddle, hit him repeatedly on the metal plating of his armor, but he only directed his horse and held her firmly in place. Had it been any other situation he would have been more than willing to obey the whims of a woman, but now...now he had no choice but to run.

And so they darted through the nightmare blackness, illuminated only occasionally by flickering bursts of an unnatural electric end, and left the Angel of Death to his grave, the whipping of the winds and thunder his funeral music, with the bolts to dig his tomb.

-----

It had barely been half an hour since the storm had struck, and yet already its devastation was showing. The destruction occasionally visible when a bolt of lightning flashed, even from the outskirts of the storm, was awe-inspiring; great huge holes dug into the hilly plains that had been whole only that morning, with debris scattered in every direction, and the occasional tree no more than matchsticks and firewood now.

Eliwood surveyed the damage grimly from one of the many shelters that his army had managed to find. When the first group had been dropped by the mounted riders at the base of the mountains, those on foot had immediately rushed to find something, anything, to be used as shelter. A series of caves, varying in size, had eventually been discovered, and a network established almost immediately to guide the stragglers to their havens. The largest of these caves had been taken by Merlinus to hide his supply wagons in, along with his massive horses, while several of the smaller caves sheltered those on foot without mounts and only the barest supplies.

Now they waited for the last of their number to arrive as they huddled within the safety of the caves, unable to step outside. Though their shelters were on the fringes of the storm's radius, the occasional stray bolt would still strike frightfully close to the caves, and Eliwood had immediately ordered that no one was to set foot outside their shelters until the storm had abated. The only men still outside were the horse riders, searching for the last of the infantry that had fallen behind in the storm.

Lowen and Isadora had both returned empty-handed, looking exhausted and dejected, and after having both checked for injuries Eliwood had sent them off to rest and recover themselves after their heroic work. Marcus had returned a short while after them with a bedraggled looking Erk, half unconscious, flopped in the saddle before him, and Kent only a few minutes after that with an equally haggard looking Wil sitting in the saddle behind him, clinging for all he was worth to the knight to protect himself from falling.

But Sain had not returned yet, and Eliwood was sure there were more people out in the storm. Had Sain, perhaps, found them, but been unable to return from the storm unscathed? Was he still in there, searching? Lyndis was growing worried for her knight, and both had been careful to avoid indicating the situation to an exhausted Kent—both knew he would turn right around and go back into the storm to find his friend, despite the fact that he was all but ready to drop out of the saddle.

Then, at last, with the illumination of a particularly close burst of lightning, a figure on horseback began to come into view from the direction of the storm. The figure was moving slowly, his horse limping towards the shelters with an exhaustion evident from even that distance, but as he drew closer there was no doubting his slim form and the green-and-gold armor her wore...

"That's Sain!" Lyn called excitedly, looking relieved. "I didn't know if...out there...if maybe..." She sighed, fears eased. Despite the knight's often scandalously rude actions, and her resulting first impression of him, she had since grown rather fond of him--rather as though he were an unusual but occasionally insightful older brother.

The knight reached their shelter a few moments later and managed to squeeze both himself and his horse into the gap of an entrance. Once inside, the cave grew wider and more spacious, leaving enough room for himself and his horse, as well as several others there, without too much discomfort.

It was only when he had dismounted that they realized he was carrying a person, and after a few moments of startled staring Lyn realized she recognized that shock of green hair...

"Nino!" she gasped, running forward to soothe the girl as Sain set her carefully down against one of the cave walls. "What happened?"

"I don't know how she got the injuries," Sain answered quietly, trying to catch his breath as he waved Priscilla over—she too had taken shelter in the larger of the caves to provide room for her own mount. She hurried forward, immediately beginning to murmur quietly as she focused her energies through the stave that acted as her healing channel, and tended quietly to Nino's injuries.

"I just found her and that assassin out there," the tired cavalier continued, sitting down on a protruding rock in the cave as he spoke. "I got her, and I tried to get him too, but he got hit by something...fell behind. Couldn't get to him." Sain looked exhausted, and a little guilty as well, Lyn realized. It looked very unusual on him, to see him so utterly serious, without a joke or flirtatious comment or cheerful grin on his face...no, not unusual. _Wrong._

Nino gave a small whimper as Sain recited the tale, whispering the name of her friend again, and Lyn bent to stroke the girl's hair, soothing her. "I'm sure he'll be alright, Nino," she reassured. "Jaffar is a survivor if nothing else. You'll see him again soon."

The young spellcaster gave a shiver, but nodded quietly. "I hope so," she whispered. "I wouldn't want him thinking I abandoned him like that--"

"He wouldn't think that," Lyn countered, smiling gently. "Don't worry. He'll be here soon enough, as soon as that storm dies out."

Eliwood listened to the conversation quietly, and then turned to Marcus with a sigh. "I hate to move you, my friend," he said quietly, his voice genuine, "after all the hard work you have done. But I need to ask one more favor."

"Simply name it, my lord, and it shall be done," Marcus responded, standing somewhat wearily from his seat against the cave wall.

Eliwood nodded thankfully. "I need a head count...I need to know if everyone made it. If not...if we're missing someone, I need to know who it is, and when they were last seen. Can you manage? Once you are finished, you may rest to your heart's content—you've earned it."

"Of course, my lord," Marcus nodded quietly, moving towards the entrance of the cave to traverse to the other shelters and deliver the orders.

It took the better part of forty-five minutes to travel to all the other caverns—there was a great string of them, some holding only three or four people in all—and assemble a list of those present. Many had suffered injuries, some major, and the healers scurrying around to tend to the wounded did not help the counting process whatsoever. In the end, however, they determined that there were two heads unaccounted for.

It was also at this moment that they discovered Matthew was missing.

-----

For the record, I _hate _the 'bolting' spell. My enemies always have twenty of them, and they _kill_. All I get is one measly little bolting book...that's a grand _five times _I get to hit somebody far away, and it's almost never lethal when I need it to be. Whoopee.

Continuing the 'musical title and chapter' theme from last fic, the title and chapters derive from music by _Apocalyptica._ Fantastic stuff.

If you leave a review, kindly give it some substance! As usual, tell me what you liked or didn't like, what you thought was done well, what you thought could have been improved, etc. Your honest responses help a lot!

--Velkyn Karma


	2. Hyperventilation

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part two of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story.

-----

"So boundless I feel,

And boundless all my fears

Stop running back to old times

(Stop running back to old times)

You loose your routine,

'Cause I've found my path."

--_Path Vol. 2, _Apocalyptica

-----

Jaffar was pounded by debris on all sides as he rolled along the disturbed ground. His senses, usually so keen and completely, utterly aware, had been temporarily shot. He could barely tell up from down, light from dark, movement from stillness, could only recognize that he was suffering injury. His ears were bombarded by a soft rhythmic thudding, fading slowly away as it was overlaid with hundreds of deafening booms.

But then his equilibrium had returned to him in a flash, and he was suddenly aware of his surroundings, and the fact that he was still rolling painfully over the uneven ground, the stray sharp rocks slicing at his skin as he moved. He glided swiftly to his feet, finding firm footing immediately, wrapped his cloak about him to conceal himself completely in the darkness, and looked around warily.

The horseman was gone, and Nino along with him. _Good_, he thought to himself quietly. She, at least, would have a chance of escaping with her life, if the knight could find his way out of the storm. Upon further inspection, he realized grimly that his chances of escaping were not nearly so high; the magical thunderbolts were crashing down all around him with determination, ready and willing to kill anything within their domain. He must be far within the depths of the storm, close to its center.

_Shelter,_ his instincts told him immediately. There was no hope of outrunning the storm on foot, he knew. If he did not hole up in this tempest, he would be killed by the thrashing bolts and flying rocks and debris. He was not afraid of death itself—since his training had begun years ago and he had adopted his profession, he had been well aware of and accepted the fate that would eventually claim him in his violent existence. But he worried over Nino's survival without him, and would do everything in his power to return to her side...just as he had promised. And so, sweeping his cloak about himself more firmly to prevent any watching enemy eyes from spotting him, one hand never far from the dagger sheathes at his sides, he set off, searching for a suitable place to hide and wait out the storm.

After a harrowing ten minutes of dodging and twisting to avoid the bolts and the following cast-off earth, Jaffar finally benefited from their ruthless attacks. One particularly strong lightning strike had dug a hole deep into the side of one of the small hills that dotted the valley, and the cast-off dirt and slag had half-buried the entrance to the little cave, providing suitable shelter with cover. Moving quickly, the assassin twisted and squeezed into the hole, pressing as far back into the cavity as he could. It was small, only enough for perhaps three people if packed tightly, and still hot from the blast, but it would have to do.

Huddled in the back of the tiny shelter, he had an excellent view of the outside, and settled down with grim determination to out-wait the storm. The assassin watched the pure darkness flash brilliantly as bolts illuminated the mid-afternoon black outside, occasionally averting his eyes as a blinding lightning blast came into view, blinking away spots.

Apart from the occasional scattered rocks outside, there was no movement, but Jaffar had no doubts as to the cause of this storm. It was unnatural--he could feel it in his bones, and he had very little doubt that the Black Fang he had only recently departed from was the cause. He doubted any of the Fang would be foolish enough to wander to their deaths in their own storm, however, and so did not entirely understand why he kept such a vigilant watch outside of his little shelter.

It came as a great surprise to him, then, when he saw the sudden silhouette of a figure not twenty feet from his cramped cave.

His form was barely discernible through the darkness, and even with his sharp vision Jaffar only spotted him at all due to a far-off flash of lightning that outlined him slightly. Immediately wary, the assassin watched tensely as the figure traveled through the storm, but the other man (he was sure it was a man from the build and gait) was not walking with any reassurance. Rather, he was stumbling through the storm, desperately trying to avoid the thundering bolts around him. He had not spotted the tiny hole that served as Jaffar's shelter.

He had to be one of Eliwood's men, the assassin realized, after a moment's careful thought. The figure was not searching the storm in any purposeful sort of way, as he determined the Fang members would, if they had the ability to traverse safely through the storm and search for enemies. No, far from it; Jaffar's keen eyes recognized signs of exhaustion and uncertainty amidst the storm. He could belong to no other company but Eliwood's.

He paused, considering his next action. The man in the storm still had not noticed the shelter, and would in all likelihood stumble right past it while trying to avoid the flashing death above him. Jaffar could call to him, but it seemed unlikely that the man would hear in the horrific booms crashing in from all directions. And to leave the safety of his shelter to pull the man in was to risk his own life, his one chance of returning to Nino.

Was it really, truly worth the risk? He _had _to return to her, at all costs; staying in this shelter was his one reassurance that such a return could possibly happen. And it was not as though anyone in the army would know what had really happened to the man outside—he would in all probability be struck by the dangerous bolts overhead, an instantaneous death. There was no way to prove that Jaffar had been in range of the man at all, or that he could have rescued the man. No one would ever know—the assassin was sure of it. Concealed death and its cause had been simply business to him since he had been a child.

Yet even as the idea crossed his mind, even as he watched the cloaked man stagger past, something else twitched at the back of his mind. Feeling...was this feeling again? Nino was the only one who had ever truly allowed him to _feel_...

Nino...

If she found out--

_But she won't,_ his thoughts hissed to him, angrily. _She never has to know, and you know how to hide such information perfectly. _

But if she _did _find out that he had left this man to die...Jaffar had a strange feeling (again, this feeling!) that she would be disappointed. And somehow, despite his ability to kill without a second thought in utterly cold blood, Jaffar found he could not bear the thought of seeing Nino disappointed in him.

He did not hesitate any longer. Slipping forward, he squeezed free of the tiny shelter, his cloak furling away from him immediately as he was buffeted heavily by the wind. It nearly knocked him over, though he recovered his balance quickly. He had forgotten how powerful he wind was in the storm, after hiding away in his shelter for the past twenty minutes.

Wrapping the cloak about him securely once more, he darted forward quickly towards the stumbling figure, dodging with agility around the bolts that crashed down around him. The figure was close, less than fifteen feet away now, but even so it took Jaffar a heavy amount of effort just to move forward through the dangers of the storm. The better part of a minute had past before the assassin had reached his quarry.

He shouted to the cloaked figure, but his voice was ripped away by the powerful wind, and the man did not respond. This did not deter Jaffar, however, and he reached out quickly with one gloved hand, grasping the opposing man's right arm through his thick cloak.

The response was nearly instantaneous. The other man twitched in surprise, but immediately spun, and Jaffar noted with an expert's eye the silvery gleam of a dagger as it was drawn and swung with surprising accuracy towards his head.

Jaffar had not attained his level of skill by being unprepared, however, and as the left arm swung around to attack him he launched his other hand, grasping the man by the wrist and effectively halting the killing slash. Leaning close to the face—he still could not make out the figure completely in the dark—he roared with as loud a voice as he could muster, "Shelter! This way! Hurry!"

The figure hesitated, tried to draw his arms back, and Jaffar released one of them, tugging the other in the direction of the tiny cavern. "Hurry!" he yelled again, over the roar of the thunder about them.

The man, deciding that there were better places to be than the storm, finally turned and stumbled after his assassin guide. Sensing the man's cooperation, Jaffar now let go of his new companion's other arm, but made sure the man was not far behind him as he moved.

Getting back to the shelter proved another difficulty, and for a moment Jaffar was afraid that he had lost his sense of direction in the swirling storm about them, that the shelter was forever gone. But after a few more moments of dodging the bolts, and carefully retracing his steps, he located the half-covered entrance and squeezed his way back in. The man followed, slipping into the tiny hole with an exhausted grace, and pressed up to the side of the wall opposing Jaffar to avoid the cramped conditions as best as possible.

Neither spoke for several minutes, Jaffar watching the newcomer quietly while the other man panted heavily, trying to regain his breath after the hard flight in the storm. It was still pitch dark, and neither could really see the other, but the assassin was sure the man's silhouette was very familiar now.

"Thanks," the cloaked man finally rasped, after several more minutes of silence, and Jaffar's memory tugged at him again—the voice was very familiar, too. "I don't know how much longer I could have made it out there. That storm came on so quick, I was swallowed in it--"

There was a particularly jarring _boom _outside their shelter, and a powerful lightning bolt smashed down uncomfortably close, sending the surrounding area into a blaze of sun-like light. The flash illuminated both of the sheltering men's faces, and in one simple, fated second both realized who the man sitting across from him in the cramped, miserable hole was.

"You!" the newcomer snarled angrily, a sudden blaze of pure hatred in his voice, and though Jaffar's face remained perfectly expressionless, inwardly he cursed his exceptionally poor luck. Matthew's shock of dirty-blond hair and amber eyes were unmistakable, and the assassin recognized him all too clearly as one of many of his fellow army members who displayed open and unabashed loathing for him.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Matthew continued, his normally cheery face contorted in anger and suspicion. His exhaustion seemed to have fallen away within moments, to be replaced by a tense wariness, a barely restrained desire to cause immeasurable pain to his current cave-mate.

Jaffar considered the question rather absurd, but answered, his voice soft and to the point. "Sheltering," he said simply. "As are you."

"Don't play dumb!" the spy snarled back, narrowing his eyes. "You're a killer by nature. Were you not getting enough blood on your hands with us? Decided to help your damn Fang friends, hunt us down and ambush us out here?" He looked absolutely livid.

"I have no intention of killing you," Jaffar answered flatly.

"Like hell you don't. There's no other reason for an _ally_ like you to be out here," Mat growled lowly, all but spitting the word in a mocking, ironic tone. Jaffar remained silent, and the thief continued angrily. "How many others have you killed, and called it the storm's fault, hmm?!"

"I have killed no one," the assassin responded, soft and simple as before.

"Of course not," Matthew sneered. He looked angry still, but frustrated as well, and his left hand was resting on the hilt of his sheathed silvery dagger.

"I could have left you out there," the cowled man added quietly, eyes never leaving Matthew's glaring gaze, though he was well aware, almost instinctively, of the opposing man's hand on his weapon. His own hands strayed comfortably near to his blood-red daggers, though he did not touch either weapon, avoiding threatening moves for the moment.

"Left me to die?" Mat responded, with a bitter laugh. "Of course—death is death to you, isn't it, no matter how it's achieved. No matter what is done, no matter how gruesome. Life means nothing do you, does it, _oh angel of death?_ Of course not...that's how you could kill someone like _her!_"

The barest trace of a frown slid over Jaffar's face, though it was difficult to see in the gloom. "If this is about the woman--"

"Not 'the woman,' " Matthew snarled viciously. "_Leila!_ Don't you _ever _forget her name!" Once again, Jaffar remained silent, and the spy across from him glared savagely. "But you don't care at all, do you? There's nothing to you but killing."

More silence, and now Mat was growing aggravated from the one-sided conversation. "Say something, dammit! Or can you not even own up to your own nature?"

Jaffar glanced out of their shelter momentarily as another bolt crashed uncomfortably close, once again lighting the two men up, before opening his mouth to oblige. "I have nothing to say on the matter."

The blond spy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That so? I bet you'd have a hell of a lot to say if it was me that killed your precious _Nino,_ huh?"

Almost immediately, the assassin tensed in preparation of the perceived threat, his hands dropping to both of the hilts of his daggers, ready to spin them out and slam them home in the body opposite him. If this man so much as touched one _hair _on her head, he would be dead so fast he would not have time to recognize the blades thrusting through his body--

But Matthew only smirked bitterly across from him. "Thought as much," he said, voice now surprisingly flat, devoid of any hatred. It was strangely unsettling. "Can't blame me very much then, can you, Jaffar? You would do the same thing in my position."

With an effort, the cowled man managed to slip his hands free from the hilts of his daggers, rest them once more on his knees as he stared quietly across at the spy sharing his tiny shelter with him. "You wish me dead."

"I've told you before, Jaffar," Matthew responded, a low growl barely audible in his voice. "You're going to die by my hand, and you _will _remember Leila's name." His eyes narrowed, the burning rage replaced by a more cunning hatred.

Silence for a moment, and then the assassin spoke, once more glancing outside at the crashing thunder and inky blackness. "Regardless," he said flatly, "this is not the time or the place for your revenge."

"No one would ever know I--"

"If you attack me in this hole," Jaffar cut him off, eyes leveling with Matthew's, voice full of a matter-of-fact tone, "I will overpower you, and you will die."

Matthew fixed him with a sullen look, but nodded quietly. The assassin had a point—he wanted to kill Jaffar himself, not leave him to the Black Fang's thunder, nor did he want to die from the magical bolts himself. And were he to attack in the hole, he would be at a distinct disadvantage—Jaffar was slightly larger than him, and with his double-bladed dagger techniques he would, as he had stated, be able to overpower and kill Mat easily. The spy might score a hit before he died, but it was unlikely he would be able to steal his enemy's life in the process.

"Fine then," he responded, his voice sounding bitter, grim. "We wait." Not a particularly comforting thought, the thief thought to himself flatly. It was rather like sitting in a hole with a sleeping viper; one was unsure of when it would strike, if it did at all. "When this blows over though..."

Silence from the assassin. Matthew shot him a glare, settled back against the dirt walls of their small hole, and waited, keeping a wary eye on his temporarily allied enemy.

-----

Pent frowned quietly from the safety of the cavern entrance, wrapping his cloak tightly about himself as he gazed out into the fringes of the roaring magical tempest. The storm had raised the temperature until an almost unbearable humidity had doused the land surrounding them for miles. Yet despite the uncomfortable conditions a chill ran up the Mage-General's spine, and he pulled the cloak tighter still.

Something was not right. He could feel it in the depths of his bones, and that instinctive feeling worried and frightened him.

Beside him, Louise sat quietly on a small boulder just inside the slim entrance to the cave, her bow laid out across her lap as she watched the whirling clouds outside. They had stretched closer for hours, her keen eyes had told her, but had come to an eventual halt perhaps a mile away from the closest of their cavern retreats. When measured against open ground, however, the distance seemed far too short, and the occasional lightning bolt still reached out and thudded into the ground uncomfortably close. It seemed impossible that anyone could survive the wrath of that magical summoning.

Nino, standing quietly just a few feet from Pent, gazed out into the storm as well, silently hoping that the impossible would become probable. She had remained in the same place since her rescue from the storm, never moving, barely stirring, watching the paths just beyond their caverns for signs of life...any life. The young spellcaster was desperate to catch a glimpse of that silent form gliding effortlessly down the path towards them, to see her best friend unharmed and safe, returning to her side just as he had promised he would. She could apologize then...she hadn't meant to leave him behind, and she would have gone back to help him through the storm if she could have...

There was a quiet crunch of the dead leaves that littered the cave floor behind her, and then a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. "You should sit down for a while, Nino," Lyn said softly. "It's been a very long day. The rest would do you good."

The former Fang member shook her head. "I should wait. I know Jaffar will be coming up the road any minute." She smiled tiredly at the long-haired Sacaean, and then returned her gaze once more to the outside world and the whirling storm.

Lyn bit her lip at the helpless tone in the girl's voice, shaking her head. "I'm not so sure, Nino," she murmured. The girl gave her a horrified look, and the noble of Caelin amended hastily, "I don't mean like that! The storm is brutal, Nino. I expect Jaffar probably found shelter like we did. He probably can't move at all, just like we're pinned down here."

The young spellcaster nodded, still looking worried. "I hope he's safe. I don't want him...to..."

"He'll just wait out the storm," Lyn responded encouragingly, patting the girl on the shoulder again. "Just like we're doing now. He'll be back soon enough. It should blow over any time now, right?"

"I wonder," murmured Pent from the cave entrance, still frowning speculatively.

Nino trembled slightly at his words. Lyndis, startled, looked over at the Etrurian, asking rather sharply, "What is that supposed to mean?"

The Count of Reglay's eyes slid to meet those of the lady of Caelin, and he stated flatly, "I am not entirely sure that this storm _will _end anytime soon."

Now Eliwood's head shot up, and he glanced at the silver-haired lord in surprise from his place against one of the cavern walls. "What is that supposed to mean? You estimated that this storm would die out within a few hours, since it's impossible to hold for long!" Beside him, also leaning against the wall, Hector's eyes narrowed in worry for his missing agent.

Pent looked grim. "That is what I _estimated_, Lord Eliwood," the mage agreed, "but it seems my guess was incorrect. It is nearly nightfall now—the storm has been going for close to seven hours."

The red-haired lord frowned. "How can you tell? It's been dark out there since the storm hit—and it only feels like a few hours have passed to me."

But the silver-haired man shook his head. "You would not understand," he answered quietly, "but anyone who has been attuned to the natural arts for even a small amount of time soon begins to understand its ebb and flow. I can feel that the night is coming, despite the interference of the storm." He glanced in Nino's direction quietly, and she too nodded in agreement.

"I see." The Pheraean nodded quietly, accepting the knowledge of his companions. "But then, if it has been going on so long, why do you think it will continue?"

"Because," the Etrurian lord responded, "even the most skilled of mages should not have been able to sustain this storm for more than a few hours. I myself doubt I could support such a massive summoning for longer than three and a half hours, even if I was fully rested and prepared. This storm, however, has lasted twice as long, and shows no signs of relenting." He frowned. "I fear that our enemy—undoubtedly the Black Fang—must have some sort of powerful magical aid or talisman at their disposal, to be able to sustain this tempest for so long."

"And you think they can continue this?" Hector questioned, leaping straight to the point with his usual display of impatience.

"It is very possible," Pent answered with a nod. His expression stated very clearly that he expected the worst.

Eliwood frowned, fingering the hilt of his rapier absently as he considered the implications of this new turn of events. "If it continues like this," he said softly, "then we will be unable to leave these shelters safely. It's too dangerous to go very far outside them."

There was a sudden, soft gasp of horror, and then Nino almost whispered, "but what...what about..." She bit her lip, trembling, and her eyes seemed to move against her will to the cavern's small entrance.

Lyn immediately moved to calm the poor girl. "Nothing has changed, Nino. No matter how long the storm lasts, I'm sure that he'll be fine."

"But what if it lasts for days?" The young spellcaster still looked horror-struck. "It's so dangerous...and so powerful..." she shivered unconsciously at the unnatural aura that the tempest presented, one that she felt so painfully clearly with her connections to the natural magics of the world. "Even with shelter, to be caught out there...he'll..." she seemed unable to speak the inevitable word, swallowing it instead, and added softly, "and Mr. Matthew too..."

Hector's eyes narrowed. "I'm not worried about Mat in the storm," he growled lowly. "I'm more worried about the fact that he's out there with a psychopathic killer--"

Nino flinched, and Lyn shot the Ostian a dirty look. "You have _no _tact whatsoever, Hector!" she hissed at him angrily.

The heavily armored man glared back. "I know _you _seem ready and willing to give him another chance, but all I'm saying is--"

"Enough!" Eliwood cut in sharply, and the lord and lady fell silent, glowering at each other but doing little else. "Enough," the Pheraean repeated, calmer this time. "There is absolutely no point arguing over this. It simply burns our energy and leaves us divided, so let us forget the matter entirely. There is little we can do for Matthew _or _Jaffar as long as they are out in the storm, so for now they will have to rely on their own resilience, and we shall have to look after ourselves." He glanced at Pent. "Is there any way to counter this storm? Any way at all?"

The Etrurian shook his head, his expression dark. "Not that I know of, and certainly not from here. Were we closer to the mage, I would suggest trying to eliminate him, or seal his magic, but from this distance not even I can dispel the storm completely. The best we can do is ward these shelters against damage magically and pray for the best."

"Then do so...whatever you can manage. Enlist the other magic users if you think they can help. I want to ensure the safety of _all _the members of this army present." Pent nodded quietly and, with a quick gesture to his wife, slid out of the cave to locate Erk, Canas and Lucius in the other shelters.

The cave became uncomfortably silent rather suddenly, despite the whipping wind and booming thunder outside of their temporary home. Yet despite the unnatural quiet, the thoughts and emotions of the cave's occupants seemed to crush heavily down upon all of them; Eliwood's concern and worry was rapidly catching, and the restless irritation between Lyndis and Hector still hovered sickeningly in the air, spreading its tension like poison.

Yet nothing within the cave could match Nino's feeling of utter fear and concern. She was afraid beyond measure for her best friend, trapped somewhere out in the storm...she knew he was a survivor, she was all too aware of his skill, and perhaps he would not ever truly need her help, but...the shadowy feeling of apprehension touched at her so painfully that not even the tormenting heat of the storm could melt the icy feeling in her heart.

Something was not right.

-----

Ages were spent in that dark speck of a hole, curled up and painfully cramped as the two strove to avoid touching each other. Complete avoidance was impossible, however, and both thief and assassin spent their hours in hiding staring across at the other, warily watching the allied enemy for even the slightest signs of danger our dissent.

Jaffar could tell almost instinctively that many hours had passed, and he estimated roughly that it should be close to nightfall. Time telling had never been a particularly difficult problem for him—sometimes he would spend hours lurking in the dark, awaiting his next target, and he had long since learned to judge the passage of hours with relative accuracy without the aid of the sun.

Yet spending that time was another matter entirely. Unable to leave the confines of the tiny shelter, scrutinized and watched carefully by his hateful cave-mate, Jaffar was able to do little but think, delving into introspection that he could not truthfully say he had ever experienced before.

Not that this was surprising. For the entirety of his life he had been taught only to obey orders, to attain the goal without question, and beyond planning for such encounters thinking had never been required for his profession. Indeed, Nergal had discouraged it, and so his Angel of Death had done exactly as told with never a second's pause.

But now he wondered.

Matthew had said there was nothing to him but killing. That death was death to him, and its cause mattered little. Was it true?

Yes. Undeniably true, the assassin knew all too well. He had been killing since he was a child; being the bearer of death came as naturally as breathing to him. No hands, no blades, could be quite so stained as his.

Was this all there was to him, then?

No. The Ostian spy had seemed to imply that Jaffar _enjoyed_ murder. But the ex-Fang knew, after some contemplation, that this was wrong. He did not enjoy killing, just as he did not hate it. He felt nothing for it. He did not know how to feel; had never known, until he had met Nino.

So did he truly _live _to kill?

A difficult question. Very difficult. He struggled to find the answer, thinking carefully, deeply, laboring in his attempts to understand his own nature. To destroy, to steal life itself, was all that he knew, all that he had been trained and taught to know. Its opposing force, morality, he knew little of. It had never entered his violent education, and now the concept of such a thing eluded him, just has he barely understood the concept of _feeling. _Matthew—no, all of the army members—seemed to think that this _feeling_ was inherent and instinctual, that he must be every representation of a monster to feel no remorse for lives taken, yet...how could he understand, any more than a child born blind could hope to understand sight? He was aware that they sensed something else that he could not, but that was all.

But after many long hours, turning the question over and over in his mind, he came to a slow realization, a quiet understanding. He did not live for killing, did not exist for murder; he lived for the goal, for the focus, for reaching that one point successfully. The two concepts had always overlapped in his life before, becoming so intertwined he had never learned to pull them apart, merely accepted his life as a killing instrument without complaint or question. His place had always been to bring an end to his master's enemies, to rain death down upon those who would interfere with the Fang and with Nergal, and until now he had always considered this exactly his existence without ever stepping back to look at _why._

Now he considered.

His objectives had changed. He no longer served Nergal; so he was no longer his harbinger of death, the concealed blade that destroyed, only knew how to destroy. Indeed, he had no master now. Though he served the Lord Eliwood and the Lady Lyndis, it was simply because Nino traveled with them, and thus he did as well.

But if his goal changed...then so did his methods. He still possessed his skill as an assassin—there was none better than he in the arts of concealed killing. But it was unnecessary, it seemed, to use such skills in his strange, new life. Certainly, since he had left the Fang, he had not engaged in wholesale slaughter; he fought as directed in the minor skirmishes they had encountered since his joining, but he had not gone out of his way to kill for the sake of killing.

Had anything else changed, then? Was he still the killer that his cave-mate envisioned him to be, or had his objectives changed even farther than he had realized? The assassin wasn't sure. Far too much had altered itself in the past week since he had joined the army. His sudden decision to protect Nino, utterly the opposite of his previous life of sheer destruction, had caught even himself unawares—he was still not entirely sure where that choice had come from, was _still _coming from—and he was still grappling with this difficult concept of _feeling. _

He did not know where he was going, then. Jaffar worried about the uncertainties—he had _always _known his objectives before, ever since he was a child, and being unable to predict his own goals frightened him a little—but there was no turning back now. He had not survived this long by being a coward. He would move forward, remain brutally efficient in terms of his new goal as he searched for it...whatever it may be.

Across from him, Matthew watched his temporary shelter ally with wary curiosity, shifting his leg uncomfortably from where it had fallen asleep. Hours had passed now, completely uneventfully, and the Ostian had long since burned out his anger and rage. It was far too exhausting to uphold sheer hate for as long as they had been trapped in the miserable hole, and the spy had abandoned it in favor of a watchful tolerance that did not eat at his energy nearly so much.

He wondered, vaguely, what Jaffar was thinking. What went through the mind of a murderer? Did he feel remorse? Was he thinking about those that he had killed? Was he...was he thinking about what he'd done to Leila?

Matthew felt a pang of guilt in his heart as he thought of her. He should have convinced her to stop earlier...she'd devoted years to the spy network of the Ostian marquess, she could have retired from such a dangerous life far earlier, and if he had just...if she hadn't...maybe she...

_Enough of that,_ the spy told himself sharply. Thinking such things wasn't going to bring her back, and as she herself would have told him, his line of work held no room for regrets. She never would have listened to him anyway, he knew. Free-spirited and intensely loyal to her country and her marquess, Leila would have laughed at his concern and continued as she always had. What he had to focus on _now _was surviving his current predicament.

It was then that he noticed the silence.

Their long and uneventful existence in their miserable speck of shelter had, so far, contained a background of dissonance from the storm. The boom of thunder above them had been continuous, the crack of lightning bolts smashing into the ground almighty and all-prevailing, the levels of the cacophony fluctuating with the nearness of their origins. The worst had been the blast so close to them—Matthew estimated a bare five yards away—that it had cast debris into the tiny entrance of their shelter, nearly completely hiding it from view from the outside. The thundering crash had been absolutely atrocious, jarring both men, forcing them to cover their ears or risk loosing their senses. The sounds of the storm had never stopped, and both thief and assassin had grown accustomed to the noise, ignoring it, letting it slide to the back of their minds.

But now there was...nothing, absolutely nothing. If he strained his ears, Matthew thought he could hear quiet rolls of thunder, but the sound was so dulled that it seemed far into the distance.

Jaffar shifted sightly across from him, his head raising almost invisibly in the darkness of their shelter to turn in the direction of the exit. Frowning, Mat glanced at the nearly-covered exit as well, muttering without thinking, "Is it over?"

The assassin was silent—not that Matthew cared—and so the Ostian spy shifted his cloak slightly and began to crawl towards the entrance to shift the large rocks blocking the way and investigate.

And froze, as the sounds of hoof beats and footfalls just above them drifted to his ears.

Startled, but immediately wary, Matthew flattened himself against his wall of the shelter to avoid the tricklings of torchlight that slipped through the few tiny cracks at the entrance of their small cave. He glanced back quickly at his companion, and Jaffar nodded in what little light was available, also tense and silent. An unspoken message passed between them, strangely easily in their shared professions of hiding in the shadows; _wait first and stay hidden. _

And so they waited.

The hoof beats seemed to trot past their location, circling around (the torchlight moved), over (scattering dirt and pebbles on the hidden ones' heads, though they moved not), past once more (the light returned), while the footfalls of an unmounted man followed. After a few moments, evidently in which the shelter of the hidden men of Eliwood's army remained unlocated, the movements stopped several yards away, and voices broke the silence.

"Nothin' here." A snort. "Stupid to look."

"Doesn't matter," the second voice replied flatly. "We were ordered to go on patrol by the commander, so we're patrolling."

"And tell me," the first voice sneered, "what the _hell _is goin' to get in through _that?_ It's impossible. Like trying to walk through a wall."

"Walls can be broken."

"Worrywart!" Another snort from the first. "Anythin' that was out there is dead now. I'm tellin' you, there is _nothin' here._ Patrollin' like this is ridiculous. I'm tired from movin' all day in this thing, and my horse is too. I'm goin' back to _rest!_"

"We haven't finished!" the second voice, seemingly the unmounted man, said sharply. "We're supposed to patrol up to the radius, that's what Arellen ordered--"

"I don't see your man Arellen out patrolin' with us, do you?"

"No, but he has his duties--"

"Bah!" The first cut him off. "He ain't out here because there ain't a thing out here to find. I'm tired. It's good enough to me out here—I'm headin' back to rest." An amused chuckle. "Gotta be ready for the raid tomorrow, after all—if there's anythin' left of 'em when we get there!"

"You idiot..."

The voices and footfalls faded away, and the torchlight slowly melted from the cracks of the shelter, though a faded light—rather like dusk, it seemed—remained. Matthew, looking grim, exchanged glances once more with his present cave-mate, and Jaffar once again nodded silently. Both understood the implications.

It seemed, in an unfortunate turn of bad luck, that they were hidden beneath the very territory of Black Fang company that had released the terror of that unholy storm.

-----

And that wraps up chapter two. Things should start twisting next chapter soon enough!

I'm glad you all hate bolting as much as I do.

As usual, if you plan to leave a review, please make it substantial! I want to hear how I can improve the story or my writing skills just as much as I want to hear you tell me whether or not you liked it. Constructive criticism is a fantastic thing.

--Velkyn Karma


	3. Kaamos

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part three of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story

-----

"Reveal not every secret you have to a friend, for how can you tell but that friend may hereafter become an enemy. And bring not all mischief you are able to upon an enemy, for he may one day become your friend."_  
--_Saadi

-----

Silence dominated, and neither thief nor assassin moved, frozen like stone statues within their miserable hole. The senses of the men of shadows were at their height, with hearing, vision and instincts strained to their utmost, feeling for any signs of the enemy above them.

But the Fang patrollers did not return, and the sounds of footfalls remained utterly absent. Finally, after crouching for the better part of half an hour, Matthew shifted into movement once more. With the utmost care and skill he slipped silently to the entrance of the tiny cave, carefully beginning to move aside enough rock and debris from the opening to slip through. The work took nearly ten minutes, but the thief was eventually rewarded for his perseverance as he squeezed carefully through the new and still mostly hidden opening to the night air beyond.

It was a blessing, to be able to stretch his legs. He had spent hours in that cramped hole, and the soft crackles and pops of his muscles and bones unwinding were music to his ears—or would have been, had he not been aiming for pure silence. As it was, he stretched quickly to put his limbs back into working order, sweeping his cloak around himself quickly for added concealment as he gazed at his new surroundings.

After the buffeting wind and torturous heat and humidity of the storm itself, the air seemed cool, dry, and terribly still but for the occasional mild breeze that slid past. The day appeared to be at its end, for the last stretches of dusk were just receding, and the world around him was quite dark apart from the blaze of campfires and torches perhaps half a mile distant to the southeast. Grimacing, Matthew took careful note of the enemy's position, crouching down slightly within the folds of his cloak to conceal himself more completely in the darkness.

His wary eyes continued to roam, searching for any and all important points of notice, just as the Ostian spy had learned from experience. Apart from the camp, there seemed to be no other noteworthy landmarks. There was nothing but the hilly plains that they had been traveling on, now pockmarked with hundreds of holes and scattered debris from the smashing magical bolts of the storm.

The storm! What direction had it passed in? He knew it had moved, he could still hear it in the distance, but couldn't mark where...Looking skyward, Matthew searched for the telltale rolling black clouds.

There! There were the fringes of it, traveling in the direction of the mountains the rest of the army had taken shelter in. Except that something was wrong...frowning, the thief's eyes followed the edges of the storm as they curved back towards them, around them, in a perfect...circle?

"The eye," said a soft murmur from beside him, and Matthew barely suppressed a startled jump as he recognized Jaffar's voice. He berated himself immediately; the assassin, of course, could move just as silently as he could, and had probably slipped out of the hole behind him without a trace of sound.

"The what?" Matthew hissed back, his ire raising at his own frustration with himself. His dislike of his companion certainly did not help any.

"The eye of the storm..." Jaffar repeated, again softly. "I've heard of such things before from...others." He halted before he mentioned the names of other Fang members he had worked with, realizing it would help their situation little. "Within a powerful storm there is a radius of perfectly calm conditions... I assume that such a thing occurs in unnatural storms as well."

"Then we're in the middle." Mat growled lowly in his throat, already disliking the sounds of the situation. He glanced up at the skyline, already rapidly growing dark, and estimated carefully, "maybe a radius of a mile and a half at most." Jaffar said nothing, only glanced in the direction of the Black Fang camp not too far distant.

The Ostian couldn't help but sneer. "Feeling lonely?" he asked sharply, watching the opposing assassin warily. His hatred for the man was beginning to ebb at the back of his mind once more. "Want to head back to your friends?"

"They are not my friends."

"Of course they aren't," the thief responded dryly, before spinning on his heel, walking away from the camp in the direction of the mountains and the waiting army he belonged to.

There was silence from behind him, but he knew almost instinctively that Jaffar was following. A moment of unease clutched at his heart—the last feeling he wanted was to know he was being stalked by a known assassin—but he turned to look over his shoulder and hissed, "what are you doing?"

"Following you."

"I know that!" Matthew responded, sounding angry, as he began to move up the side of a particularly large hill on the pockmarked plains. "I meant _why _are you following me?" He glared over his shoulder now, wishing more than ever that he could strike the assassin down where he stood. But if he attacked, the Fang members in the camp would unquestionably hear and come to investigate, and that would result in certain death.

There was silence from behind him from his unwilling companion, and Matthew found himself squinting to spot Jaffar's form; in the dim, nearly-black coming of night his cloak and cowl, as well as his skills, made him extraordinarily difficult to see. After a moment, however, the former Fang member spoke. "Because of that."

Suspicious, the thief's immediate instincts told him not to turn around—perhaps it was a ploy, so that the assassin could perfect an utterly silent kill from behind. But then Mat found himself cresting the hill, and almost without thinking he turned to look ahead.

And froze.

"A wall," the spy breathed slowly, awestruck, as he stood atop the hill and stared. The conversation he had overheard not even an hour ago came rushing back to his mind, and as clearly as he heard his own thoughts, the horse-riding Fang's voice drifted back. _It's impossible. Like trying to walk through a wall._

The radius of the eye had come to its end, and Matthew and Jaffar stood not even a quarter of a mile from the storm's inner fringes. The transfer from still haven to unholy terror was nearly instantaneous. Above them stars began to twinkle brightly, only to be swallowed up in the raging black storm clouds and the unnatural darkness they cast beneath them as surely as if they _had _vanished into a thick wall. Occasionally sharp blasts of lightning still smashed into the ground within the curtain of nightmare black, lighting the trapped plains up dazzlingly for mere moments before retreating once more into the hidden depths of the tempest. And though the storm's whirling winds were still a fair distance from the two men of the shadows, both could already feel the stronger breezes tugging at their cloaks and hair in a teasing, playful way that hinted at malevolence beneath the surface.

Spinning slowly on his heel, Matthew's eyes followed the barrier where eye and winds met, watching with growing despair as the storm-wall circled around them. It was like standing in a vortex, watching the chaos spin around them, utterly untouched but in no way unaffected. If they crossed through that barrier, the only thing they would find was death.

They were trapped.

Silence reigned, and the two stood atop the small rise, watching the devastation of the storm all around them amidst the unnatural, chilling stillness. Ages upon ages seemed to pass, entire lifetimes slipping by through their fingers, before Matthew finally spoke, voice soft and hoarse.

"Why hasn't it stopped?" he said slowly, staring into the nightmarish darkness. Jaffar did not answer, only crouched down quietly on the rise to conceal himself further in the darkness, and Mat continued softly. "I overheard Pent when we were running—he said it should have died out within a few hours, if a mage was causing this."

"...It hasn't..."

"I noticed," the Ostian snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he added, "they must be pulling some sort of trick to keep this up." He glanced back in the direction of the campfires and torches, grimacing.

Silence from his present companion. Matthew began to pace on the rise, restless, trying to think. He was trapped inside this hellish storm with a company of Black Fang members, with only a former Fang assassin as an ally—and even then, a shaky ally at that, one he could not trust. They could not get out—and, he was sure, Eliwood and the young master could not get _in. _In all likelihood they had holed up in the mountain shelters during the storm, just like he and Jaffar had, waiting for it to let up...

But it wasn't going to, he knew. Whatever the Fang was doing, they had planned it well, with the intention of wiping out the entire army in one fell swing...and if something was not done about it, they would succeed, and everyone would die.

Jaffar, too, was aware of the implications of the storm. The storm, he knew, was the key; without it, the Fang could easily be routed by Eliwood's much more experienced and loyal army. He had seen it happen enough already, as both an opponent and as an ally. Against the unnatural tempest Eliwood's men would be worn down, but with that single advantage gone...there would be hope. And Nino was with them...she needed that hope to survive, or she too would be slaughtered by the storm and the Fang.

He absolutely would not have her death in his hands, not if he could act to prevent it in any way. But there would be no help from the outside—the fight against the magical storm would have to start within its very eye, and that meant...

"We must work together," Jaffar said suddenly, shattering the quiet like so many shards of glass.

Matthew's head whipped around, surprised at the suggestion, but his hatred and wariness rose almost immediately. "_What?_"

"You hate me," the assassin summarized flatly, "but now is not the time for that hatred... If the army is to survive, they must be liberated from this storm. And that is a job only the two of us can complete...but neither of us can do it alone."

The Ostian hissed under his breath. "Why should I believe you?" he growled lowly, shifting his cloak aside enough to expose his sheathed silvery dagger, his hand only inches from its hilt. "I don't know how your loyalties lie. You could sound the alarm for your friends over _there_--" he nodded his head towards the campfires in the distance, "--and I'd be dead in less than a heartbeat. There's no way to believe a murderer like you."

"I am no longer their ally."

"And I should believe what you _say?_"

"...You wish to save your friends, correct?" Jaffar asked, eyes shifting slightly in the shadows his cowl threw over his face. "And you serve the Lord Hector...Your loyalties demand that you do everything in your power to save them. But you cannot do it alone... You requiremy help."

"But why" Matthew hissed, his voice bitter and accusing, his fingers twitching a little closer to his dagger in defensive anger, "should I _believe _that _you _would want to save them? You're a killer, Jaffar. A few more deaths wouldn't matter to you, would they?"

Silence, so heavy and thick it weighed on the two men more painfully than the crush of boulders, but then, so, so slowly, there came an answer. It was soft, softer even than the assassin's usual speaking tone, and it sounded to Matthew's ears...confused? Unsure?...as though being drawn from depths that even the former Fang could not completely fathom.

"If I do nothing," the voice said slowly, "if I do not act while I can...then she will die. I...do not want that to happen..."

The answer was so unexpected that the Ostian started, and his hand dropped away from his dagger in surprise. Before, the assassin had sounded utterly matter-of-fact, cold, mechanically efficient in everything he did, but this...while confused, it had a taste of...compassion? Yes, the spy realized, compassion...and sincerity.

_If I do nothing, then she will die. _

_I had done nothing, and Leila...she...if I had done something, she..._

"Fine," Matthew heard himself speaking, and to his own surprise he stood up straighter, drawing his cloak around him once more to conceal his weapon and his body. "We call a truce and an alliance...for now." And, without entirely understanding why, he held out his hand.

Jaffar stared at it for a moment, eying it carefully, but then he too extended one of his own gloved hands. The two clasped; the grip was firm, perhaps a little too crushing in their dislike, but the message was understood. _Until we return to camp, we are allies. _

More silence, as the two stared across at each other, sizing up the other's abilities for their new mission. After another series of ages had passed Mat took a deep, steadying breath, trying to keep the hostility in his mind from his voice, and spoke again.

"We need a plan," he said flatly. "And an objective. But to do that, we need to know our enemy first."

Silence, but the assassin nodded quietly in agreement, the movement barely discernible in the gloom. The thief was beginning to grow used to this however, and kept speaking, taking charge as his mind sank into its patterns and movements as an experienced spy.

"I suggest we take the time to scout out the enemy camp," he continued. "Figure out what we're up against. If we know how they work, we know where to target them." He glanced at Jaffar. "I assume you know enough to manage that."

"Yes..."

"Alright," Mat nodded, looking a little grim. "Meet back here in...two hours, then. We'll trade information and figure out where to go from here."

"Yes." And then the assassin was gone, swallowed up into the darkness as he slid towards the enemy camp, utterly silent, utterly unseen. Matthew, setting his jaw with determination, melted quietly into the shadows as well, moving with unseen grace towards the unknowing target that did not realize it had locked itself in with two dangerous predators.

Nothing could escape...and that included prey.

-----

It hadn't been at all that hard to slip into the enemy camp unnoticed, Matthew reflected. As a spy for House Ostia, he was skilled at slipping into places he wasn't supposed to be under the tightest of security, and the Black Fang's guard was anything but secure. With the impenetrable wall of rushing winds and thundering blasts the men considered themselves safe, and so their watchfulness was lax.

The campfires and torches cast plenty of light to be avoided, but they spread just as many wavering shadows, and Matthew was an expert when it came to staying unseen. Sliding from one patch of darkness to the next was practically a game to him, and now that he was away from Jaffar he was given the chance to relax and unwind, a chance to think over their new situation.

He still could not entirely believe he had made that pact. A pact with his worst enemy, a ruthless killer that showed no mercy...had killed _her..._His cheerful face twisted into a grimace, recalling his handshake with the assassin. Those same hands had been stained in Leila's blood just months earlier, and the thought made him feel vaguely ill.

But it was necessary, he knew, if the army of Eliwood was to escape alive. He hated Jaffar with a passion, but his duty to Marquess Ostia and his brother came before his desire for revenge. If it meant working with his enemy...and she had done it, had infiltrated the Fang itself, worked with them for Ostia's benefit...

But it had _killed _her...

He shook his head firmly, clearing his thoughts and returning to the matter at hand. He had melted through the enemy camp like a shadow, taking careful mental notes on its arrangement, the number of men in the company, and possible safe hiding places beyond their shelter, just in case. Now he was crouched outside the small supply convoy, eying the wagons carefully as he guessed at the supplies hidden inside.

No guards around. Glancing about one last time carefully, Matthew pressed close to the ground for added concealment and scurried to the supply wagons, his thief's heart barely suppressing a pang of glee as he began to investigate their contents. Even in such a serious mission as this, he could not help but feel cheered as he worked—_this _was the good life, what he enjoyed doing.

The spy shifted the contents carefully, taking note of their arrangement so as to return them the way they were—no use raising the camp's suspicions yet. Mostly food and weaponry, though there were several magical tomes, as well as collections of other magical artifacts, mostly staves and amulets.

Making another mental note of this information for now, he glanced around furtively once more for Fang guards. Finding none (_terribly lax,_ the thief noted with distaste) he slipped a few small loaves of bread and a flask of water into a leather pouch tied to his belt. He doubted his mission would be done in under a day...and a thief had to eat, after all. The food would likely not be missed, since it would be all too easy to blame it on a hungry soldier eating outside his rations. Such a thing was common in armies.

But as he turned away from the carts, he hesitated. The food he had just stolen would only suffice to feed him, and not the assassin he was presently working with. Jaffar was the silent type (as Matthew had learned only too quickly), but doubtless he would be hungry as well, especially after remaining in that miserable shelter for seven hours. Should he even bother...?

Footsteps to his right—loud, jangling, and clearly a knight in his armor. Moving quickly, Matthew slipped underneath one of the carts, his thoughts temporarily broken as he ghosted around one of the wheels into the deeper darkness. Crouching and arranging his cloak around himself to better affect shadow, he waited.

Even his anticipation was too speedy for the under-guard Black Fang. It took nearly a minute and a half before soldier's boots passed Matthew's vision, armor glinting a dull red in the torchlight that the man evidently carried. The Fang member paced by the carts several times, circling, checking, rechecking; the hidden Ostian held himself in place with a mixture of barely contained impatience at the enemy's slow speed, and a professional experience of out-waiting his opponent.

And while he waited, he contemplated, fingering the satchel tied securely to his hip. Was it really worth getting more? He was loathe to help that killer, hated the prospect of actually aiding in his wellbeing and health. Yet without food, the assassin would weaken, and his performance might falter—possibly fatally. Neither would survive then, nor would the army outside the storm's radius.

But still, helping _him..._

At last the Fang soldier turned and left, marching back the way he had come. Matthew allowed a full minute to pass before slipping back out from underneath the supply wagon, cloak now tucked around him to conceal his form. He glanced around once more, very carefully, and then slipped his nimble fingers back into the wagon, withdrawing with two more loaves and another flask. Turning quickly, as if to keep himself from reversing his decision, he pushed the remaining foodstuffs into the small leather satchel and darted off into the night.

He had done everything he could here. Observation was finished; it was now time to plan the attack.

-----

Some ten minutes later Matthew paced quietly about the entrance to their small shelter, watching the whirling of the storm about him as he waited. Jaffar had not yet returned, and the thief was beginning to grow anxious. Perhaps the assassin had betrayed him after all, and was even now sharing details about his hidden location with the Fang—the man would not have been surprised in the least to hear such a thing.

But then the faint sounds of crackling grass greeted his ears from some ten paces away in the darkness, and in the span of just a few moments the former Fang in question stepped into view of Matthew's now night-sensitive eyes. It was difficult to see him in the gloom, even with the stars above to cast light, but Jaffar was making no effort to conceal himself at the moment. Matthew suspected, as he dropped his wary hand from the hilt of his dagger, that this lack of effort had contributed to the noise the assassin had made as well before becoming visible. The spy was all too aware that his current ally could move like a ghost on the wind if he so desired.

The Ostian glared in his allied enemy's direction, meeting his eyes with an uncontained glimmer of dislike, but with a deep breath he managed to force it down. They needed to be allies. Antagonism would not help keep the army alive. "Find anything useful?"

The response was soft, barely heard, but there. "Yes."

"Good." Both were tense, watchful of each other, but after a moment Jaffar shifted into a graceful crouch, resting. His gloved hands were balanced carefully on his knees, close enough to reach his blood-red daggers should something happen, but far enough to show no aggression in their present situation.

The movement seemed to break the tension, and Matthew sighed, running a hand through his shock of dirty blond hair as he tried to organize his thoughts into a proper report. They needed some sort of structure, anything, to map out a proper plan, and--

The rumble of his stomach seemed to stand out heavily in the eerie stillness of the eye, and shaking his head slightly the thief gave the offending belly a look before reaching into the satchel at his hip. He withdrew a flask of water and one of the loaves, tossing the latter dexterously into the air for just a moment before snatching it, digging into the food with a vengeance as he watched his allied enemy.

Part of him, he knew, hoped to taunt his current partner...goad him into some sort of action, into making a foolish statement. Matthew understood the necessity of working together, but that certainly did not mean he had to enjoy it--and deep within he knew he longed for an excuse to leap at the assassin, plunge his silver knife into the man's heart.

But Jaffar said nothing, only crouched silently, watching his fellow man of shadow with the same wary eyes he applied to everything in the world. He would not be baited, was too disciplined or too dedicated to his cause—the girl, the Ostian was well aware. After several long moments Matthew gave an irritable sigh and delved into the small satchel again, producing two more loaves of bread and the second flask of water.

"Take them," the thief growled lowly, tossing—perhaps closer to throwing—the procured foodstuffs to the cowled man still crouching on the ground. Jaffar, his reflexes long since attuned to the slightest movement from long hours of daggerwork, snatched the flask and loaves easily out of the air, but only stared at them silently...as if uncomprehending.

For some reason this only acted to raise Matthew's frustration further. "Eat it already!" he said, voice somewhat harsh, as he glanced down at the assassin. "It isn't poisoned, I swiped it from their stores. And if we're working together, neither of us can afford to grow weak before we finish this." And he tore another piece free from his own loaf of bread, swallowing without another word.

Jaffar stared down at the food for several moments more, and then slowly nodded. "Yes...thank you." And he too began to eat.

They demolished the bread between them silently, each taking two loaves. It was a meager dinner and not particularly filling—Matthew would have given anything to be back at with his own army now, sitting near the cook fires, laughing and joking as he partook of a hearty stew, or perhaps roasted meats. But it kept their strength up, and the spy could feel his clearheadedness returning when his mind was not distracted by an empty stomach.

Most peculiar, he found, was actually watching Jaffar eat. With his reputation as a merciless killer (_well earned, _Matthew thought heatedly), and the ominous title of the Angel of Death, the assassin had always seemed to have a superhuman—or perhaps subhuman—aura to him. His antisocial behavior and silent wariness within the army, visibly interacting with Nino alone, had only added to such a reputation. Yet now, seeing him commit so human an action, displaying something as mortal as _hunger_ (for he was hungry, the spy knew, easily observed by the way his food disappeared so quickly)...it was unsettling, odd.

Matthew wasn't entirely sure he could accept such an observation yet. He did not want to think of Jaffar as human; the man was a monster, a killer, the murderer who had slaughtered Leila. It was so much easier to hate him when he was a demon. And the Ostian _needed _to hate him for what he had done, because it was all he had to combat the guilt that perhaps the situation had been partly Mat's fault.

But for now...for now, he could accept it. If he worked with a human, and not a demon, perhaps their mission would succeed, and the army would be saved.

So it was that, ten minutes after Matthew had shared his spoils, the thief took a deep breath to steady himself and spoke once more to the...human. Not monster. "Okay. Now that that's taken care of, we need a plan." Jaffar stared across at him quietly—Mat was sitting now, as well—and the thief continued. "I estimate they have about thirty soldiers or so, at least...about the size of our company. Most are foot soldiers, but some are on horseback, and I saw a few wyvern bedded down for the night on the outskirts of the camp, on their southern side." He indicated the direction; the former Fang opposite him eyed the location carefully, marking it in his mind, and nodded.

"Lots of supplies. They have a pretty big supply column, consists of a couple of wagons. Mostly food and weapons, but I saw some magical supplies in there too, so I assume there's quite a few magic users here—besides the one causing this storm, that is." He gestured absently at the sky around them, the unmistakable mark of the storm swirling around them evidence to his words.

"There are exactly seven."

Matthew blinked, words drawn to a halt at the unexpected sentence Jaffar had just uttered. He had not expected the assassin to speak up at all, quite truthfully—he was growing used to the man's nearly constant silence. "Come again?"

"There are exactly seven mages..." Jaffar repeated, voice soft as always. "And it is not just one mage maintaining the storm...they are rotating."

The spy frowned at the news; already the implications weren't good. "You figured this out while you were there?"

Jaffar nodded quietly, the shifting of his cowl sending his face dipping into shadows once more. "Yes. I found the mage who is maintaining the storm right now. Unfortunately he is heavily guarded—I could not get close enough to strike."

The Ostian shifted uncomfortably on the hard, debris-strewn ground as he considered the news. "What's this...rotation?"

"All seven mages are fairly skilled in anima magics... Each can hold the storm for close to two and a half hours," the former Fang member explained. "The first holds the storm for as long as he is able...and then passes its maintenance to the second. The second again holds it as long as he is able, and passes it to a third...by the time the cycle is completed, the first is fully rested and prepared to hold the storm once more." He gave Matthew a dark look, but the spy's quick and clever mind had already reached the inevitable conclusion.

"Then the storm is endless," he said softly, eyes narrowing slightly. "If they cycle like that, they could keep this up for days...weeks."

"Yes..."

The Ostian spy looked grim, and standing rather suddenly he began to pace, fingering the hilt of his dagger absently. "Then it's a siege-and-destroy plan," he surmised, traces of worry in his voice. "Lord Hector and the others are probably sheltering in the mountains by now, unable to leave. All the Fang has to do is push the storm forward, envelop them, and wipe them out."

"They cannot move quickly," Jaffar informed him, though he too clearly understood the danger of the situation. "Sustaining the storm is taxing on the mages, even while they rotate. They will move slowly."

"But it doesn't matter," Matthew shot back, angrier than he intended, as he continued to pace. "If the others can't break free of this storm, they'll be trapped in it, no matter now long it takes to push forward. And even if the storm itself doesn't wipe them all out, they'll be so weakened and exhausted from hiding that they'll be easy pickings for the Black Fang company we're stuck in here with."

"Then they cannot be allowed to move."

The thief shot the other man a sharp look, but considered this line of thought. If the Fang could be delayed long enough for them to disrupt the storm...then the Lords, Lady, and their army might stand a chance of survival. But how to do that?

"The mages," Mat murmured under his breath. "They're the key to this whole thing. Without the mages, the storm fails, and the Fang has no advantage left at their disposal." He glanced down at the still-crouching assassin. "Seven, you said?"

"Yes..." Jaffar paused, then added slowly, "they are not as well guarded as the present caster...but the few I had located still remain close to the other soldiers. I can eliminate both easily--"

"They would know we're here," Matthew cut him off. "We can't risk it. We're trapped in here, and there's no aid coming to our defense. If we rouse an entire company of the Black Fang against us because they find the bodies of dead soldiers and mages laying around stabbed for no good reason...we're finished." He gave Jaffar a somewhat sardonic look. "Even if we _do _have an angel of death with us."

The assassin ignored the jibe. "Death comes in many forms...Not all of them appear to be assault."

"And you would know, of course," the spy replied, not quite able to hide the scathing tone to his voice.

Again, Jaffar ignored the bite. "The deaths of the mages can be made to look...accidental. Natural. Suspicion can be avoided until it is too late for them to act."

Matthew grimaced slightly in disgust at this, but there was little way around the situation; cleverness and deceit were necessary to avoid bringing the entire Fang army down on their heads. Still, there was one other factor..."What about time? Even if the mages all die in their sleep, six deaths in one night will still be suspicious...and you said yourself that you couldn't get at the seventh without being seen."

"The deaths will be spaced out...One or two per night."

Growling low in his throat, the Ostian bit back a sharp comment at the utterly calm, uncaring way in which his companion had written off the lives he would take. Instead he did some quick mental calculations, saying out loud, "it would take us a few days at least, then. They'll probably grow suspicious towards the end anyway, but by then their cycle will have been broken up—the mages won't be able to rest as long before sustaining the storm. It may weaken, or break entirely."

Silence in response. Despite his hatred of the assassin, Matthew was already growing to understand this particular type of quiet as agreement or assent. Strange, how quickly he was growing to understand the man he considered his worst enemy.

"I think," the thief added, after a moment's more consideration, "that our army can hold out for a few days as well. They're tough, and not without supplies and defenses...they should pull through." Again, the agreeing silence. "And with any luck, once the mage cycle is broken, they may stop moving to recover themselves."

"Yes..." Jaffar stood, his dark cloak sweeping around him concealingly almost immediately, palms drifting to rest comfortably on the hilts of his curved daggers. "Then we should begin."

Matthew nodded grimly, mind now focusing on the grisly work ahead of them. Jaffar was the assassin, not him; he was just as spy, shouldn't be caught in this work, shouldn't have to work with a murderer at all.

But he had no choice in the matter now. All he had was a plan, and all he could do was follow it. And so it was that the two men slipped forward, vanished, melted into the shadows on their mission...predators on the prowl.

Death was coming, and its messengers did not falter.

-----

And that concludes chapter three! Some pretty decent action coming next chapter as the grisly stuff begins.

Not entirely sure when I'll be uploading next, as I'm going on vacation and then I'll be heading back to school. But the other chapters are nearly finished and will be up, I promise.

And now, as always...if you plan to leave a review, please give it some substance. I don't just want to hear "this fic is awesome" or "this fic sucks." Tell me _why._ Tell me what could be improved, what was done well, why you like it or why you don't. Thank you!

--Velkyn Karma


	4. Until It Sleeps

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part four of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story, as well as a few minor characters in the Black Fang outfit.

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"Man, on the day of his death, falls down before the angel of death like a beast before the slaughterer."

--Grunhut, _Likkutim_

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The stars glimmered overhead faintly in the gloom of the night, a sharp contrast against the whirling storm that circled with malevolent intent below them. Yet they cast little light below, and with no moon present and the pressing storm-clouds all about, there was hardly any light cast within the eye beyond the fires and torches of the Fang—only a heavy darkness that men of shadow favored so highly.

Hidden within this blanket of darkness, just on the outskirts of the Black Fang encampment, Jaffar and Matthew watched and waited. Neither could see the other, but both were well aware of the other's close presence. They had stood there for close to half an hour, watching the movements of the camp as they planned their first elimination, and now they were ready to strike.

Shifting carefully, Matthew sidled close enough to his allied enemy to speak in a whisper without being overheard by those of the camp. "What's our first move?"

"We must find them..." Jaffar said softly in response, though his voice was the only indication that he was there at all, so impossible to see through the dark he was.

"You said you had located them!" the spy hissed back, though fortunately his voice remained low.

"I found two...but they were weakened by maintaining the storm...and still guarded."

"And we want the fresh mages, first," Matthew agreed slowly, catching on to Jaffar's line of thought. If the weakened mages were eliminated first, the strong ones, already prepared to take the storm for their shift, would still be alive and would sustain the tempest. The camp would not be hindered, only mildly inconvenienced, and they would move forward to endanger Eliwood's army. But should the prepared mages be removed, there would only be weakened spellcasters to cover their absence in controlling the storm, and the camp would be halted.

But that required finding the appropriate targets first, and Matthew realized that this task belonged to him. He was a spy, an expert at finding information in any situation, and he would be best suited for finding the men in question.

His gaze returned to the torch-lit camp before them, his face set with grim determination. "Can you follow me?"

"Yes..."

"Then keep up." And he was off, slithering through the patches of shadow like a ghost, unable to hear his companion stalking behind him but aware with every inner sense he possessed that Jaffar was there.

It took the better part of an hour to locate the sources he needed, the locations he wanted. But no one was better at following even the faintest whispers of truth and information to a solid conclusion than Matthew of Ostia, and the low murmurs of the men sitting around the fires led a clear trail to his destination. So it was that, as midnight approached, the two men of shadow stood quietly outside an ordinary-looking tent, just outside the ring of torchlight cast by its single guard.

Voice so low he himself could barely hear it, Matthew leaned close to his companion and said softly, "Inside. Resting. Takes the dawn shift."

Jaffar nodded silently, his sharp eyes looking carefully over the tent and its surrounding area. He glanced at the guard momentarily, and then without so much as a sound slipped around to the back of the tent, Matthew following.

There was no back entrance to the tent, unfortunately, as the two had hoped for—only a thick canvas, loose but neatly staked down. The assassin slid over and knelt quietly, studying the fabric's every detail, and then slowly, carefully, began to work the bottom edge away from the ground below it.

Matthew knelt beside him, questioning almost silently, "What are you doing?"

"...Getting in." Jaffar did not even look up from his work.

The Ostian hesitated only a moment, and then his dexterous hands moved forward to help with the careful and silent process. "What then?"

Jaffar paused, and one of his gloved hands slipped to a small pouch at his waist, returning with a tiny phial held between two fingers. "Poison..."

The spy shook his head, hissing as loud as he dared, "they'll notice the after-effects of poison, and then they're onto us!"

But the assassin shook his head in disagreement, drawing out a small cloth even as his companion finished loosening the tent canvas. The contents of the phial were carefully dabbed onto the tiny scrap of fabric, and the former Fang drew one of his blood-red blades free, beginning to coat its curved tip in the poisonous liquid. "No. It takes only a scratch...and it will look as if he died in his sleep..."

Matthew frowned, glancing around in the darkness. "How long?"

"Two minutes."

Two minutes to end an unsuspecting life completely and utterly. Two minutes to assassinate somebody, to come from behind and completely erase his existence. And Matthew was helping! The spy swore softly, his anger and frustration evident to even the unfeeling killer beside him, though Jaffar said nothing.

"I'm not coming in," the Ostian said abruptly, giving his companion a grim, defiant look.

Silence.

"I'm not a murderer like you," the spy continued. "Not a backstabber. I'll have nothing to do with _your _business." Yet he did not sound confident. No, he sounded unsure, rather as though he were convincing himself of something.

"...I will do it..." Jaffar whispered, soft as always, cutting the thief off before he could speak further.

"Of course," Matthew responded, his whisper vaguely accusing, angry, though he remained as quiet as possible. "It _is _your area of expertise, after all."

Another sharp jab, but the assassin was too focused to care about it. Instead he shifted, beginning to slide underneath the loose tent canvas silently. Behind him, his thief companion slid off into the darkness, keeping a sharp eye out for approaching soldiers until the gruesome deed was done.

Jaffar squeezed into the darkness of the tent and froze, waiting close to thirty seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the faint torchlight shining through the front of the canvas before he moved. The guard in front of the tent flaps had noticed nothing, only shifted slightly from one leg to another in boredom. The former Fang member kept one ear cocked and ready in the direction of the guard's silhouette, and then began to pace forward to the business at hand.

The mage was asleep, curled up rather untidily in his bedroll, a short red cloak tossed over the blankets for added warmth. There was no dangerous expression, no hint of malice on the sleeping face, only the blank look of a man well into his forties and deep within his dreams. He was utterly helpless, at the mercy of any attack, and most men with a shred of honor would have been unable to end his life without meeting him in fair combat.

But Jaffar did not know how to feel compassion for his targets, and did not feel any now. The only person to ever survive his orders to kill had been Nino...and it was Nino he thought of now, as he slid forward like a shadow, one blood-red dagger at the ready. If he did not act now, perfectly, absolutely, with the cruel efficiency he had employed for years at Nergal's side, then she would die. And he could not accept that.

He knelt, still silent, crouching next to the sleeping mage's head. The man had still not awoken, and the guard outside still remained blissfully unaware of the assassin's presence. Absolutely perfect conditions—he had worked under far worse.

Moving quickly now, Jaffar removed a second phial from his pouch, uncorking it quickly with his teeth and running it underneath the sleeping man's nose. Satisfied that the man would not wake up in the few minutes he had left, he replaced the tiny bottle after several moments, and lifted the coated dagger.

It was almost pathetically simple to apply the killing stroke. A tiny scratch, barely noticeable, was carved into the back of the sleeping man's neck, the deadly poison beginning its work slowly as it slipped into the bloodstream. The mage, under the effects of the same sleeping scent that Prince Zephiel had fallen to not even two weeks ago, never so much as woke for the process. His doom was sealed.

Jaffar stood quickly, looked around carefully once more. The soldier was still unaware that he had just failed his duty, unaware that his entire camp was locked in with a pair of hunters. He would be terribly easy to kill...but that was not his mission, the assassin knew. They could not afford to be found yet, and so he slipped back to the entrance he had made, squeezing carefully underneath the canvas once more.

Almost as soon as he had passed into the open night air Matthew was beside him, attacking the noticeably moved tent canvas with determination. "There's a guard coming," he said urgently, whispering, as he moved the tent fabric back to its original position. "Night watch. We've got maybe a minute." Wordlessly Jaffar added his own aid, restaking the extra canvas neatly until it resembled its original appearance.

The two men of the shadows darted into another row of tents just as a swordsman passed, torchlight held high as he moved through his usual rounds. The man looked bored, fingering the hilt of his long and exquisite blade absently as he passed. He paid no attention to the tent of the now-dead mage as he walked by, nor did he notice the two unwanted members of Eliwood's army only feet from him.

"That was close," Matthew said with a sigh, after the man had passed. "Did you..."

"Yes."

Another sigh. "I don't attack from behind like this. I'm a spy, not a...a murderer. This isn't what I do. It's what _you _do." Jaffar said nothing, only wiped his dagger clean and replaced it in its sheath.

"But if we don't," the thief continued softly, almost under his breath, "they'll be worse off. Can't let the young master die...or any of the others for that matter..." He shook his head, cleared his thoughts. _Focus._ _Can't start losing focus now. Do what has to be done._ "This way," he said quietly, and slid into the gloom. The assassin followed noiselessly.

It was now just a little past midnight, and from the information he had dug up Matthew was certain that the mages would be rotating very soon. They usually commanded the storm from one heavily guarded tent close to the center of the camp, the spy had discovered, and he was anxious to reach the location before the next mage's shift began. The Ostian was not entirely sure what action they could take against the magic users next. But at the very least he could play the waiting game he was so familiar with in his profession, watching the tent to make note of those who came and went. More information would certainly never hurt.

He slid noiselessly past several more tents, ducking aside to take a shortcut through the enemy's supply convoy, and Jaffar followed silently. By now Matthew was almost as familiar, if not more, with the camp than most of its inhabitants, and he ghosted through it quickly with his shadow behind him.

It was because of his knowledge of his location that he froze suddenly, flattening himself against one of the wagon sides to conceal himself further. Jaffar paused beside him, also wrapping himself in shadows more effectively, trusting for the moment Matthew's intuition.

He was rewarded for his trust. Not ten seconds had passed before the clinking of armor became apparent, and the same knight that had forced Matthew to hide hours before stomped heavily past. The torch in his hand had burned down considerably and cast only a small circle of light, but it was enough for the two men of shadow to spot the smaller, cloaked figure walking alongside the armored man.

"No one here understands the dangers!" the smaller figure snapped irritably, shifting his short cloak from one shoulder as he moved. Matthew and Jaffar both recognized the voice after only moments as the unmounted man who had earlier patrolled outside of their tiny shelter.

The knight holding the torch gave a noncommittal grunt in response, and the smaller man continued angrily, "all you soldiers...you understand nothing about the efficiency this bolting technique!"

"That's your job," the larger of the two said flatly, clearly uninterested. "We're not paid to know magic."

"Idiots," the smaller responded. "You're paid to be idiots. The storm is just that...a storm! Not a wall! Just because we have provided you with extra protection does not mean you can shirk your duties. That soldier _refused _to patrol! That is inexcusable! I will certainly be reporting this misconduct to Arellen."

"Suit yourself," the knight responded sharply, obviously growing irritated. "If duty is so important to you, you can walk the rest of the way to the tent yourself. My _duty_ is to guard this supply convoy," the man finished, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The smaller man, clearly a magic user, stomped his foot angrily. "This _will _be reported," he snapped again, before whirling and stepping from the circle of torchlight into the gloom beyond. The knight gave a low mutter of "_bloody mage_," under his breath, and then turned back the way he had come, light vanishing behind one of the wagons.

Matthew found the comment curious and stored it away to be used at a later date. The magic users and the soldiers seemed at odds with each other, and that certainly could be exploited in the future if played right.

Even more valuable, they had located the mage that was about to take the next shift. Turning just enough to find his companion in the darkness, the spy pointed and breathed softly, "He's switching now."

Jaffar slid up beside him, still nearly invisible in his movements, and studied the unsuspecting magic user quietly. "Then he will be the next target."

"Here?" Mat hissed back, looking skeptical. "They're expecting him!"

"All the more valuable...They will be witness to his accidental death."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" the spy asked in frustration, but he was too late. Jaffar was already gliding forward silently towards his quarry. Shaking his head slightly, Matthew looked about for the patrolling knight and other enemies. But there was no one visible, and so the thief slipped himself into the shadows, his gaze returning almost against his will to his companion as he came closer to completing his grisly work.

The assassin was moving utterly silently, ghosting up only a few paces behind the still unsuspecting mage. The man continued to grumble irritably about the stupidity of the soldiers he was forced to work with, unaware that his own doom was stealthily creeping up behind him. He was almost out of the gathering of supply convoy, walking alongside the largest of the wagons as he muttered to himself.

As with the first death, the killing blow was almost pathetically quick. Jaffar did not draw his famed blood-red daggers, as Matthew had expected he would. Instead, one of his gloved hands shot out and, with brutal efficiency, grasped the mage firmly by the back of his neck. The man did not even have time to cry out before a dull _crack_ fluttered through the air, and the spellcaster went limp almost immediately, his head lolling at an unnatural angle to his left.

"They'll have heard that," Matthew said sharply from his hiding place in the darkness, trying to suppress the impulse to be sick at the ruthless death he had just witnessed. His mind was repeating, over and over, that this was _not _what he did. He was not an assassin, not a mindless killer, nothing like Jaffar...but he could not completely deny the uncomfortable twitch in his mind that asked, quite firmly, why he had to try and convince himself of such a thing at all.

"We want them to." Jaffar's voice snapped Matthew back to his senses, and the spy eyed his companion as much as he could in the gloom.

"If we draw attention to ourselves in this, we're dead, and so are the others. You know that!"

"Yes...but if we draw attention to false reasoning, we will last longer."

Matthew frowned. "False reasoning? You mean, when it looks like an accident?"

"Yes." Jaffar looked utterly calm as he returned to his work. He was still suspending the now-dead mage in the air by his broken neck, and now he turned to face the wagon, hefting the body with him. With a merciless swing, the assassin cracked the dead man's head against the corner of the final supply wagon; blood spurted as a gash appeared in the man's hairline, and then he was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

Mat glowered at his allied enemy's brutality, but it appeared that Jaffar wasn't finished even now. Bending down, the former Fang member rearranged the body's limbs and cloak slightly, and then dusted his own cloak over the surrounding area, eliminating what trace there was of his own footprints.

"Hide," he suggested quietly when he was finished. He did not wait to see Matthew's reaction, instead slipping quietly underneath one of the other wagons, blurring into the shadows nearly instantaneously. Feeling a mixture of confusion, disgust, and discomfort, the spy followed, squeezing himself beneath another wagon close to that of his companion's.

They crouched in the darkness for close to twenty minutes before soft footfalls reached their ears. Moments later a ring of torchlight lit the paths between the wagons, illuminating a soldier with a broadsword strapped to his waist. The man looked only partially awake at so late an hour, but moved with a determination that implied the work of another hand higher than his own.

"Ghellas!" the man called sharply, hefting his torch a little higher as he gazed into the gloom. "Ghellas, where the hell is that damned magic user? He was supposed to be with y—_by the goddess!_"

The torchlight had flickered forward enough to illuminate the cloak of the now-dead mage, and as the swordsman stepped closer the view of the entire body followed. The Fang member froze momentarily, but then paced forward to kneel beside the dead spellcaster, torch held low to examine the body.

The knight, apparently named Ghellas, stomped around the other end of the supply convoy and came into view, holding his smaller, burned-down torch high. "What's the racket for?" the man growled, his earlier irritation still evident.

"What the hell happened here, Ghellas?" the swordsman muttered, glancing up at the knight in question. From his hidden position Matthew could see that the smaller man was surprised, but did not appear to be displaying a good deal of disappointment. Clearly, the man Jaffar had just killed was not well liked.

Ghellas appeared dumbfounded, and knelt awkwardly in his heavy armor to get a better look at the dead spellcaster. "Damned if I know," he said flatly. "He was alive and kicking just a little while ago. I left him at the end of the convoy to go up to the main tent."

"Well he never got there," the mercenary responded, looking distinctly annoyed. "Twenty minutes overdue...Arellen was ready to kill." Both men shuddered at the name. Matthew stored away that information as well; this 'Arellen' character was clearly disliked and feared by the soldiers.

"Sent me to find him," the swordsman added. "I come out here, and look what I find! He's been dead for the goddess only knows how long." He shook his head.

"We should have one of the others check it," the knight said, looking dubious. "This should be reported."

The swordsman snorted. "Sure. And have Arellen rip my stomach out through my throat? I'm not willing to try it, my friend."

"One of the others then."

The smaller Fang shrugged. "Fine by me." And he disappeared into the gloom, leaving the knight to stand guard over the motionless form on the ground. Some ten minutes later he returned, another magic user in a short red cloak trailing after him tiredly.

"Definitely dead," the spellcaster observed of his kinsman after a moment's pause. "Probably almost as soon as you left him." He gave Ghellas a reproachful look.

The knight glared back, and asked flatly, "how'd it happen?"

This was the moment Matthew had been waiting for, and his already attuned senses strained powerfully for the answer. Jaffar had not indicated exactly how they were leading the Fang away from their presence while reaching their goal in this manner. Although the Ostian had a pretty good idea as to how it was being managed, he still wanted the proof that the Fang itself had fallen for the trick.

The still living magic user knelt beside the body and examined it carefully, running his hands over the bloodied gash and the snapped neck. He seemed to have some understanding of medical knowledge, whether through studies with healers or scholarly understanding, and after a moment or two he spoke. "Stupidity."

Both the knight and he mercenary looked confused and shifted uneasily. "Come again?"

"See, here." The magic user pointed at the gash in the dead man's head, and then indicated the spot of blood on the corner of the wagon. "He fell against the wagon—like so—and gouged this gash into his skull. The impact also caused him to break his neck in the fall. I assume this is what killed him."

The swordsman looked a little incredulous. "Is that really possible? It seems a little...I don't know..."

"Improbable?" the mage looked up at him stiffly, tiredly. "I agree with you, but it's not _that _impossible. The human body, especially the neck and head, are especially fragile things. If he was distracted, it would be all too easy to trip on this infernal hilly ground and crack his head against the wagons. The position of his body when he fell seems to support this theory, at any rate."

"So what now?" Ghellas asked, raising his torch slightly as he stood.

"Clean this mess up," the mage ordered. "Mazus had the next shift, until the dawn...he will just have to support the bolting until then." And without another word the spellcaster turned on his heel, walking off into the night to summon the mage in question.

Matthew watched with disinterest as the knight and swordsman set to work removing the body of their fellow Fang, waiting for them to leave so that he could crawl free from the wagon. Beside him Jaffar was equally still, waiting with a patience that hinted at sheer ruthlessness beneath.

The spy grimaced. Ally or not, that murder had been gruesome. Had...had Leila faced that same brutality, that same cold efficiency, when he had killed her? Had she been afraid, or had she not even seen it coming, just like the last two mages?

_Enough! Stop thinking like this!_ Matthew swore at himself, trying to settle his thoughts as he waited, restore order to them somehow. He was not a murder like Jaffar, no...but these assassinations were necessary if he was to do his duty, and he would do it well. It was time to shape up. Jaffar had been doing all the real work so far, carrying out the most crucial part of their plans with the elimination of the mages. It was grisly work, work that Matthew disliked, but if he did not help everyone would be doomed. If nothing else, he would be damned if it was Jaffar, and not he, who saved the entirety of Eliwood's army. Leila never would have let him live it down.

The knight and swordsman had since vanished, and now he and Jaffar slipped free from the wagons, stretching slightly after crouching for close to an hour. Both kept their senses attuned for the return of the sentries, but for the moment it seemed they would be left well enough alone, and so Matthew began to pace.

"Interesting trick," he finally said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. Jaffar was silent, as always, prompting the spy to continue. "You knew they would buy that story, didn't you." A statement, not a question. "I guess the Angel of Death knows his area of expertise well indeed."

"Humans believe what is easiest to believe."

"And the godlike angel would know the whims of the pitiful humans so well," Matthew snapped, before biting his tongue to halt more scathing words from spilling lose. _Deep breath. Control. Focus._

Jaffar did not rise to the bait, and so Matthew sighed, reorganizing his thoughts. He glanced in the direction of the sky absently; with no moon, there was no way to measure the passage of time, but the spy had an approximate idea of the hour of the morning. "I'd say we have three or four hours left before the sun starts to rise. We need to be out of here by then." He looked in the assassin's direction. "Two mages are dead already...both fresher ones. It should halt the Fang's movement for now, but we can't do any more tonight without drawing suspicion on ourselves."

"Yes."

The thief almost absently reached into the supply wagons as he considered their next moves, withdrawing another small selection of foodstuffs for the two of them to breakfast on later. Two natural, accidental deaths within the camp would not be impossible, admittedly, but it certainly would be improbable. Especially when any clever Fang member could draw similarities between the two dead men. Both magic users, both involved in the bolting spell, and most importantly, both fresh and rested...it left a pattern, and as a spy Matthew was well aware of the dangers of such memorable evidence.

"This is wrong," he said suddenly, frowning as he glanced around once more for enemy soldiers.

"It is necessary. The mages must--"

"Not that," Matthew said sharply, waving off the issue of assassination as a solution for the moment. Compared to their current problems, it did not seem like such an issue at all now. Already Matthew was growing more and more accustomed to the reality of their situation as time passed. Witnessing that murder seemed to be doing wonders for him. The realization caused him to shudder, but only slightly.

"Then what?" Jaffar asked quietly. He was beginning to understand the value of the thief's quick mind in their scheme, and despite their dislike it was necessary to trust the spy's intuition for the time being.

Matthew considered his words and spoke. "It's the way we're going about this. This will all be for nothing if they figure out it's assassination, and not a series of accidents. That was some tricky work you pulled there," he admitted grudgingly, "but it won't do us any good if they're on to us with the next death they discover...and if they're clever, they'll understand the impossibility of this improbability. We need to throw the pattern, discourage them from figuring us out too early."

"And how do we do that?"

"Somebody has to die in the middle of the day," Matthew said grimly. "Preferably one of the weaker mages who aren't going to go on duty soon."

Jaffar watched his ally with his flat, expressionless look, but he seemed a little confused, or perhaps troubled. "We will be spotted in midday if we attempt to eliminate a mage."

"I know. We can't risk being caught...but it has to be done, in another way if necessary."

The assassin watched him critically. "Do you have another way?"

Matthew took a deep breath, and then reached into his satchel, nodding darkly. "Yes. It's this." And he held out a tiny, clear phial, pinching its short, stubby neck delicately between two fingers.

Jaffar eyed the liquid inside with a practiced eye, noting its clear and smooth texture. "I am not familiar with this item. Is it poison?"

"No!" the Ostian answered, his voice rather too sharp in response. "At least, it's not intended to be," he added, a grudging expression on his face as he admitted to the liquid's properties. Jaffar remained silent, and the spy continued.

"This is _Va'Adrital_. It's a sleeping serum. You know I work for House Ostia as a spy...my main duties consist of gathering information." _Not killing_, he thought silently, and his allied enemy clearly understood the implication, though he still said nothing. "Many times, the information I need to gather for my lords doesn't come easily...or quickly. A little reassurance that I won't be walked in on while I'm working is always nice, and that's where the _Va'Adrital_ comes in."

The assassin nodded, the only indication that he was listening, for his eyes darted about in the gloom as he searched for approaching enemies. The clinking of armor could be heard fairly close by, and so the two men of shadow slipped away quietly, relocating to a safer position.

When they had halted, Matthew continued his explanation. "_Va'Adrital_ is, like I said, primarily a sleeping serum. It knocks the enemy out for a few hours, and they wake up without every knowing what happened. If you change the dosage, or dilute it with other liquids, you can effect when the weariness first kicks in, and how long it lasts. It's very versatile. That's why we developed it."

"We need to kill." Jaffar said it flatly, coldly; his brutal directness was evident even in his voice.

"We will." Matthew still looked grim. "With a strong enough dosage, you can put the victim into a sleep they'll never wake from. Stronger still, and it will result in death." He did not explain how he knew this, and his expression dared the assassin to ask. He didn't.

"Can it be traced as poison?"

"No. It looks like fatigue. For all they know, he killed himself from over-work and exhaustion."

"This is a very valuable serum."

Matthew glared in his direction. "You're not getting your hands on it," he snapped, "so don't even bother thinking about it. It's Ostian by creation and belongs to my fellow kinsmen alone."

Jaffar ignored him, focusing on more pressing matters. "How will you administer it?"

The spy became thoughtful. "It works best when drunk. I'll slip some into his wine glass or something."

"Then we must find him first."

Finding their next target was not particularly difficult, certainly not with Matthew's skill. The thief had chosen the mage who had acted as the relief for the second dead spellcaster; the examiner had called him Mazus. By the time he finished his shift, it would be only an hour or two until dawn. The man would only have a little time to rest before he partook of food, and perhaps an hour or two after that he would be dead, well into the day and fitting their requirements exactly.

So it was that they stood outside the tent of Mazus some fifteen minutes later. But now their positions were reversed, as Matthew paced silently towards the tent, phial in hand, while Jaffar ghosted behind him. This tent, unlike the last, was not protected. Since the mage that it belonged to was on duty, maintaining the storm, the soldiers had seen little need to stand at the ready. All the better for the men of shadow, that they were not inhibited by the annoyance of a guard.

"Give me a few minutes," Matthew said softly to his companion, as he gently swept aside the tent flap to enter. Jaffar said nothing, but understood perfectly, vanishing into the night to keep a wary eye out for wandering soldiers. With no hesitation the Ostian stepped into the tent and set to work.

The interior consisted of a somewhat organized mess, typical of most spellcasters Matthew had seen in his day. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the tent, he spotted a cot with disheveled blankets that stood in one corner, and a small collapsible table that stood opposite it. Cot, table and ground were strewn with various tomes of magic and books on other subjects. Balanced precariously on top of these stacks of reading material were other items; candles, a wooden cup, a few amulets, a particularly exquisite looking ring, a wooden bowl, and a few extra pairs of breeches and shirts.

Matthew eyed the ring momentarily before he managed to suppress his sticky fingers and headed with determination for the wooden cup. It was empty at the moment but for a few drops of the dregs of water at its bottom, but the thief could tell with a little observation that it was used often. Perfect.

Lifting it carefully, he shook the last few drops of water from the cup's depths, uncorking the tiny phial in his hand as he did so. He did not know for sure how observant this Mazus was, but Matthew had long since learned from experience that it was better to be safe than sorry. Measuring carefully, he allowed six drops of the _Va'Adrital_ to plunk into the wooden item, adding one more drop from a second phial to alter its effects slightly. Swirling the resulting concoction for a moment, he finally nodded and replaced the cup back into its original position, exactly as it had been placed before he touched it.

_Perfect._ Even to a sharp observer, nothing would have appeared to change. A few drops of water had been left in the cup upon leaving; a few drops of a clear, similar looking liquid were still left. The mixture was tasteless, and would still work perfectly even if (or more likely, when) the mage filled the object with drink. He would die in midday, and Lord Hector and the others would be one step closer to their freedom.

He withdrew from the tent quickly, tucking the phials back into his belt pouch as he did so. Jaffar was nowhere in sight, so he checked the tent to be sure it looked the same as before and then slipped into the night, moving stealthily.

There was little more that they could do here now. It had taken the better part of the night to gather information on, find, and kill two mages alone. A third would admittedly be eliminated soon (_by my own hand, _Matthew thought, but he brushed the gruesome words aside for the moment), but that still left four capable mages and a full company of soldiers to deal with. And one of those mages would be impossible to get at until they had weakened the camp's resources, magical and otherwise, further.

Jaffar ghosted up beside him, though by now the Ostian spy was well used to his companion's silence, and was not startled when he spoke. "The way is clear out of the camp."

"Good," Matthew said tiredly. "Everything is all set, then." Neither one needed further clarification to understand the implied third death approaching. Both began to make their silent way from the camp in the direction of their little cave, their one shelter in the series of events unfolding about them.

There was silence between them for some time, as both maneuvered deftly within the shadows of the pre-dawn morning, making their way to their temporary 'home.' But then, surprisingly, Jaffar broke the silence, his hoarse and soft voice shattering the quiet like fragile pottery. "Then we wait."

Wait. Yes, that was all they could do; hide in their miserable hole, regroup, rest and strengthen themselves as much as able. Wait, and pray. Wait, and hope; hope that the tiny thorn they had created between them in the side of the monster was enough to slow it down, enough to buy the others hope as well. There was no other way to know, no way to be absolutely certain, and only one way to be sure...but it could cost them everything.

"Yeah," Matthew agreed grimly, face set. "We wait."

-----

And that's a wrap for that. Next chapter we'll see how well their plans are going...if they're lucky they got the Fang to slow down, but if not...well, we'll see.

This fic is getting massively out of hand. The outline I sketched out suggested four chapters, max. This is probably going to grow to six. Ouch. Big difference. I'm not sure when my next updates will be, as I'm moving back to school and will have to spend some time on schoolwork now (damnation!) but I'll update as soon as I have something decent written up for the next chapter. Fortunately, the entire rest of the fic (however long it'll be) is planned out.

You know the drill by now. If you leave a review, make sure it has some meat to it! I want to know _why _you did or did not like it, what could have been done better, what you thought was done particularly well.

--Velkyn Karma


	5. Fight Fire with Fire

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part five of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story, and a few minor characters in the Black Fang outfit.

-----

"_One Way, Loser, Caution_

The humans are afraid

_Your Flame Order To Gate_

The all-seeing shadows will wait

_One Way, Loser, Caution_

It's a silent warning

_Your Flame Order To Gate_

As all hope is stained in red."

--_CAUTION!_, Iceman (translated lyrics)

-----

Sitting at the entrance to her cave and watching the storm, Nino saw a flicker.

She was so exhausted that she was not even entirely sure she had seen it at first, and the girl rubbed her eyes furiously to clear their bleariness away. It _was _late, after all. And all members of Eliwood's army possibly capable of wielding any form of magic had been enlisted in the creation of the defensive magical shields. Though she was not quite as powerful or well-studied as some of the other members of the army, she had contributed what energies and experience she could to help protect the rest of the company. And while she was proud of her ability to be useful to the kindly Eliwood and his companions, it left her drained and exhausted.

So it was that she thought her senses were playing tricks on her in the middle of the night, teasing her in her fatigue. But no, there it was again, as she stared intently at the storm; it seemed to tug at her innate magical senses for but a fraction of a second, but it had undeniably _flickered._

Was she really seeing this? Was the storm perhaps growing weaker...stopping altogether, even? No, it wasn't that, she observed after a moment. It was still going strong, showed no signs of relenting, but just for a tiny portion of a second the storm had seemed to falter...as though the summoner had lost control for the slightest of moments.

She bit her lip slightly at her own inexperience with the storm's fury. She had heard her mo—_Sonia_--talk about the bolting spell before, but being unable to read she had never been able to learn about it further. Pent had explained the process to her carefully, but it still seemed too high-leveled a spell for her. And having never experienced it herself she could not judge the storm's ferocity or skill as well as some of the others in the army could.

Frowning slightly, the young mage glanced back into the large cavern, looking for a second opinion on the matter. The occupants of each cave had shuffled based on the needs for the shielding spells some time previously. Most of the magic users had moved into this cave, the better to pool their resources, while the knights and some of the horses had relocated to the other shelters in the string.

It was her turn to keep watch, and so everyone was sleeping for the present. She could not blame most of them. They had contributed far more to the shielding spells than she had, and sustaining them was a continuous strain. Poor Canas, with his knowledge of the elder magics, had the best chance of defending against the natural anima magics that sustained the storm; he had drained himself to the point of collapse to provide as best as he could for the shields. Pent had expended most of his own energies as well and was collapsed tiredly against his wife, deep in restorative slumber. Across from them, Erk was out cold after contributing everything he could offer despite his near-death experience only some time before. Even the gentle Lucius was flopped ungracefully on the cold dirt floor, uncaring of where he was as long as he could come by a few moments of precious rest.

Nino did not have the heart to wake any of them. They desperately needed the sleep after the day's ordeals. But it seemed she would not have the answer to her question at the moment; the only person awake at all seemed to be Hector in the back of the cave, also on watch with her (the other two lords were sleeping). She doubted he had any magical knowledge whatsoever, and secretly she was a little bit afraid of the loud and brash man.

She would notify Pent first thing in the morning, she decided. He seemed to have the best understanding of this bolting spell, so perhaps he could explain the unusual flicker. It could be a good sign, or it could be...something else. What, she could not possibly say.

Turning her head back to the storm, she watched the whirling clouds and smashing bolts tiredly. Was Jaffar still out there? Was he even alive? He had to be, she told herself firmly. It was just like Lyn said. He was probably just hiding in the storm, waiting it out just like they were. He would be fine...he would be safe. He would come back to her and stand by her side again, just like he had promised. Jaffar never broke his promises when he made them.

"Please be safe," she whispered, watching the whirling tempest outside. Her words barely left her throat before they were ripped away, torn to pieces, smashed in the swift winds of the maelstrom.

She could only hope that it was but her plea alone that had suffered.

-----

Matthew and Jaffar returned to their tiny speck of a shelter silently, but neither one entered, preferring to wait outside. Both would not admit it, but they were loathe to enter that hole, knowing as they did that they would be cramped within it for the entirety of the day. They spent as much time as they could outside of it until the first weak hint of dawn struggled through the darkness of what visible sky there was. The light felt like a death knell, but both thief and assassin understood the necessity of remaining undercover, and so they slipped back into their shelter, blocking it up once more with the rock and debris that had originally hidden it carefully.

They had remained silent since they had reached their shelter. Jaffar did not speak much to begin with, and Matthew had little interest in entering conversation with him unless it involved planning the next stage of their mission. When the dawn came, they moved just as quietly into their shelter, pushed as far apart as they could, and proceeded to ignore each other as best as possible.

Silence had dominated until both men, with their sharp senses, became aware of a commotion beginning to stir within camp. Words could not be made out completely due to the distance, but it seemed without a doubt that the Fang had found the body of the first mage they had killed...the one that had supposedly died in his sleep. Thief and assassin waited with bated breath, but although the commotion reached its peak some minutes later, they did not hear the sounds of wagons or the thud of many marching feet. They had succeeded in holding the Fang in check for another day.

They did not waste time allowing themselves to feel relieved. Both were still acutely aware that their involvement could be discovered at any point and time; and so they remained tense and alert, aware of the tiniest tremor of movement above, the smallest whisper of sound, the softest hint of danger. But no angry shouts or suggestions of suspicious patrols presented themselves, beyond a second commotion some hours later (clearly the third death), and after some time the two allowed themselves to relax slightly.

They spent their time resting, building their strength for the coming of night. Both had to be fully functional by the time the dusk came, and so while one man of shadows stayed awake to guard, the other slept for a few hours before in turn taking his own watch.

Had Matthew known some days prior the situation he was in now, he would have been both disgusted and horrified at the thought of allowing himself to sleep while a known killer was within one foot of him--and guarding his rest, no less! Yet by now, he cared little. He was exhausted, required as much sleep and strength as he could garner, and had little choice but to trust Jaffar with his life...even in so vulnerable a state. Though he hated the man with a passion, the past day had taught him enough about the assassin to know the man was devoted to their mission and had no need to turn on him. He would not kill his companion in his sleep, Matthew was absolutely confident.

And when their positions were switched, the thief found to his surprise he had no desire to attack Jaffar while he was asleep and vulnerable. Not that he was, really; even while resting, the former Fang member kept his hands resting on the curved red dagger-hilts at all times, and Matthew was sure that he could awaken and execute a kill perfectly within seconds if he felt threatened. But the very fact that the Ostian had no interest in attempting such an action was odd, even to him. His chance to avenge Leila presented itself several times, but if he took that chance he would be condemning the lives of many others, something he could not risk. And he would be just as low as the demon himself if he broke their oath and tried to plunge his silver dagger into the man's heart. He would not allow that of himself.

Around midday Jaffar woke from his turn at slumber and signaled quietly for Matthew to take his shift. The thief nodded, but instead of rolling over as best as he was able he reached into his satchel, removing a flask and a small selection of dried meats.

"Take it," he said flatly, handing them over to Jaffar with a tired, sullen look. The assassin exchanged glances with him silently, but took the proffered food without complaint.

"I've got some for now," Matthew explained, as he removed a few more strips of dried meat and a second flask, "and a little more just before we head out. It should keep up our strength for tonight." His expression was grudging, and he obviously still disliked feeding his enemy, but he seemed a little less spiteful than before.

"Thank you." Jaffar said it automatically, almost without thinking, and tore into the meat. It was tough and stringy, but it would do for now.

"Yeah. Sure." And the Ostian, too, dug into his own meager lunch.

Silence blanketed the tiny hole once again but for the sounds of chewing and drinking. But even this did not last long, and after barely five minutes their tiny meals were depleted. Still, it was comforting to have something substantial resting in their otherwise empty stomachs, and once again Matthew found his clearheadedness returning.

"Any thoughts on how we handle tonight?" the thief asked wearily, giving Jaffar a quiet look. "You're the expert after all." It sounded bitter, but not quite so accusatory as before. Matthew was too tired to focus completely on anger.

"...I have been considering our next choice..." the assassin murmured, ignoring his companion's barb as usual. "I believe I will have a solution by the time we leave."

"Fantastic," Mat said in response, sarcasm deeply evident—not _all _of his anger had been depleted. "We'll have plenty of ways to backstab, poison, and otherwise eliminate the next four mages."

"...you still dislike our methods."

"_Your _methods," the Ostian replied hotly. "Not mine."

"...Have you never done anything unspeakable in the name of your lords?"

It was not an especially penetrating question, but Matthew seemed to flinch as if injured. The thief would not have pinned Jaffar as a particularly insightful person—and even now, as he glared across at the assassin he was met with only a dark, expressionless, shadow-dusted look—but that inquiry had pricked almost innocently close to home.

"What I've done in my service," Matthew hissed scathingly, his ire suddenly rearing in full force once more, "is not any of your business, _Jaffar._" And wrapping himself in his cloak, he rolled as far away from the assassin as he could to take his rest.

It was a long time before his anger burned out completely enough to let him escape into precious sleep for the few hours he had.

-----

Neither assassin nor thief spoke for the rest of the day, switching their shifts silently and quickly. Matthew had grown sullen and hateful once more, though Jaffar could not entirely imagine why. He supposed it had something to do with the question he had posed of the spy, but he was not yet experienced enough with _feeling _to understand the Ostian's hot, scathing response. And truthfully, Jaffar cared little. As long as his companion performed well for the mission, thereby ensuring Nino's survival, the assassin did not think much of the hatred thrown his way. Though a tiny part of him, the part that had been growing since he joined Eliwood's army, did wonder _why_...

But that was unimportant, completely irrelevant to the goal. And the goal was everything.

Nightfall eventually came, and with it came blessed relief from their miserable hole. Assassin and spy crouched, waiting, until the single patrol they had encountered the night before trotted past once again; it was a tense and worrisome moment, waiting to see if they had been discovered, if they had failed. But the rider and his new foot-soldier companion swept around and past their hideout without discovery. After waiting another half an hour the two finally released themselves from their self-made prison.

It felt good to stand fully again after their full day in their cramped quarters. Jaffar allowed himself a moment to stretch, catlike, before assuming his usual silent wariness, hands on the hilts of his weapons. Beside him, Matthew's muscles were popping as he stood to his full height as well, though the thief seemed to be ignoring him for the moment.

Jaffar turned to eye the camp carefully, looking for any obvious changes from so far a distance. They did not appear to have moved at all, thankfully. The upset of two, and then three dead mages must have been too much of a setback for them to organize properly that day, just as he had predicted. But they would have had time to recover by now, and tomorrow they would surely move forward once more with their deadly storm to rip the lives from Eliwood's army.

"It looks weaker," Matthew commented suddenly to his right. The assassin glanced in his direction, following his gaze to the wall of wind and lightning that had circled them for the past day and a half.

It did look weaker, the former Fang realized after a moment's careful observation. Not by much, admittedly; the bolts still struck as ferociously as ever, and a deep curtain of nightmare black still obscured their vision of anything from the outside world. But the lightning blasts struck less often, were not nearly so close together, and the winds whipping at their edges seemed slightly less harsh. The mages sustaining the storm had lost almost seven and a half hours of resting time with the loss of their three kinsman, and it was clearly beginning to effect them.

"Just a little further..." Jaffar said softly. "A few more targets, and they will not be able to sustain the storm..."

Matthew gave him a baleful look, but nodded his head grimly in agreement after a few tense moments. "We don't have a lot of time," he said flatly. "We need to get to work as soon as possible." He withdrew the remainder of their stolen food stores, shoved half of them unceremoniously into Jaffar's hands, and turned in the direction of the Black Fang camp.

They ate as they headed towards the encampment, moving silently as always to ensure their success. It was as always a pitiful dinner, but Jaffar had worked on far less before. He respected any advantages that they could garner, including strength from food. The thief certainly could be useful when he wanted to be.

By the time they reached the camp Matthew seemed to have cooled down slightly, sinking once more into the patterns of a professional spy. As before, he instructed the assassin to follow behind him while he set to work gathering information for their latest target, and Jaffar ghosted behind him silently, content to obey for now.

What scraps of news he could gather was unusual, but intriguing. "They're conflicted," Matthew said to him almost silently, as they took shelter in a patch of darkness on the outskirts of the camp an hour after their arrival. "The soldiers already disliked the mages to begin with, but now with three of them dead they're starting to get suspicious. They think the magic users are blundering their spellcasting, with fatal results." He snorted slightly. "Others are whispering about curses, or the wrath of the gods because of the mages' incompetence."

"Do any suspect assassination?" Jaffar questioned, focused on the conversation, though his eyes flickered about warily in all directions, searching for enemies.

"Not that I can tell," Matthew answered, but he was frowning slightly. "But I can't figure out what the remaining mages think of all this. There's no gossip out there..._anywhere._ And I still can't find this Arellen."

"What of the next mage?"

The spy sighed slightly, but then spoke. "Four left: Arellen and three others. The next best target is a mage named Knell, I think. I'm pretty sure he's the man who examined that other mage last night. As far as I can tell his last shift was about five hours ago, which means he's probably the freshest of the lot."

"Where is he?"

"Follow me." Matthew led the way, his path twisting and turning through the tents and supplies until he reached the far side of the camp, Jaffar following like his shadow. After several moments the thief finally pointed, indicating a tent three rows down the line. "That's it."

"Good." The assassin paced forward, unseen and unheard as he swept past his enemies towards his target. Matthew followed some distance behind.

"This isn't right," the spy hissed suddenly. Jaffar stopped, turning to face his companion once more. He could barely decipher Matthew's face in the gloom, but his expression was grim, distrustful.

"...There is no other way," Jaffar countered flatly. Truth to tell, he was growing tired of the Ostian's constant disagreement. He was useful, but his constant moral arguments, his eagerness to distance his own personality from the assassin's, were anything but efficient. They would hinder the mission if this continued much longer. "We must continue." And he began stalking towards the specified tent once more.

"No." Matthew shook his head sharply. "I don't like this...this isn't the way to do this." He looked wary still, eyes narrowed in frustration, rather as though something was tugging just beyond the reach of his mind.

Jaffar ignored him, continued to pace towards the target with single-minded determination to his goal. The death of this mage and the others remaining would free Nino, and that was all that mattered to him...not the ethical arguments of his current partner. Behind him, Matthew swore under his breath and vanished into the night; when the assassin turned to check his position, the thief was gone to the goddess only knew where.

That was fine. In all likelihood he was checking for the presence of guards, as he had in the last two night deaths. Moving quickly now, the Angel of Death slithered through the shadows of the camp towards his quarry, cloak drawn tight like clinging darkness, hands resting on the hilts of his blades with unhidden confidence.

There was no guard at this tent, though the presence of a torch, carefully bound to a pole thrust into the ground, suggested that a man had been there earlier. Perhaps he had gone to relief himself, or something of that nature. It mattered little to Jaffar. No matter when the man returned his charge would still be dead.

Moving carefully now, with all the grace and caution of a hunting panther, the assassin stealthily crept inside the tent. He kept his cloak drawn around himself, preventing the torchlight outside the tent from glinting off his metallic belts or the blades of his slowly drawn red daggers, and stepped forward carefully towards the still form on the cot...

It was as if he stepped into the most feather-light sensation, a soft brush against his skin and cloak. And then opposite the cot came a slight shifting of fabric, and the heavy whisper of "I knew it Knell! I knew--"

Jaffar shot forward before the voice had a chance to rise, to complete its thought. His eyes had not fully adjusted to the gloom of the tent after viewing the brightness of the torch outside, but he could tell from the timbre of the voice and its general direction exactly where his quarry's vitals were, and he did not hesitate. Both blood-red daggers flashed out in unison, and with a pair of swift and brutally efficient swipes the assassin had slashed the speaker's throat, cutting off their voice completely, and disgorged the person's stomach. The body dropped, and without hesitation Jaffar whirled on the figure in the cot.

Knell, the remaining figure, was already chanting the beginnings of a fire spell under his breath to disguise his attack. The small fireball was launched in sudden fury from the air surrounding him, pelting towards Jaffar's head in a vicious flare. In the sudden light the figure now dying on the ground was identified as a female mage.

But Knell was tired after sustaining the bolting spell so recently, and his fire spell had little bite. Jaffar slashed at the burning bullet, dissipating its effects into the air with one dagger. The second weapon found its home very quickly in Knell's throat as well, silencing him before he could call for help; the first joined its brother soon in the mage's heart, snapping the life away from the spellcaster brutally.

In the span of but a few seconds, the tent was plunged into darkness once more as the fight concluded itself. The assassin almost mechanically wiped his blades clean before sheathing them, but though he was not breathing hard he was anything but calm. Two mages were dead now, leaving two left to eliminate—Arellen and one other. But they had forced his hand too early, and their deaths were anything but an accident in appearance. And it was possible the skirmish had been heard before he had managed to silence them, meaning his presence, and that of Matthew's, would be discovered all too quickly.

As if on cue, the former Fang member became suddenly aware of several soldiers approaching, their voices cutting through the still air like a knife. "What's the problem? Come on, let's just go rest--"

"Give me a sec. I thought I heard something over here."

"You're not buying into Knell's stupid conspiracy theory again, are you? Look, he's always been a bit of a crack, if he and Dalia are going on about killers I'm sure he's just making it up."

"I'm not saying I believe him."

"Sure you don't." A snort.

"I'm not!" The speaker sounded indignant. "I'm just saying, I thought I heard something funny over here, so I'm gonna check it out first." A set of boots was approaching. After a few seconds the others seemed to divert and follow.

They were close, Jaffar new grimly. He couldn't afford to let them see who he was now. The Fang would undoubtedly be aware of hunters in their midst as soon as they investigated the tent; that much could not be avoided. But if they did not know _who _exactly the intruders were, then he and his companion still bore something of an advantage. Moving fast, he slipped out of the tent and swept into the gloom, moving as quickly and silently as he could.

Too late. Though he moved speedily and skillfully, the torch outside the tent illuminated the flicker of his dark cape as it vanished into the shadows, and most unfortunately the soldiers seemed to have spotted it.

"Did you see that?" the skeptical voice questioned of the others—four in all from the footsteps, it seemed.

"See what? Now you're jumping at things too."

"No! I thought I saw a shadow at that torch there. In front of Knell's tent."

"You're a crack like he is," another of the men responded with a grunt.

"Shut up," the first growled in irritation. "Come or not...I'm following it." And, lifting his own torch higher, he dashed down the row of tents towards the apparition.

Jaffar ducked and weaved, but it seemed that every direction he moved in ended with a stream of light in the form of torches and campfires. The man behind him was still pursuing curiously, the other three soldiers following at a slower and less excitable pace, unknowingly herding their invisible quarry into a trap. The assassin could not move much further without stepping into torchlight and being spotted...something he could not risk at all. If they knew it was the Angel of Death that pursued them, they would be wary in a way that would not be shown to any other anonymous assassin.

Looking grim, he spun in the darkness, his hands dropping to the hilts of his blades immediately as he prepared for an assault. He did not like the thought of these Fangs forcing his hand again so early, but if it came to the elimination of a few extra soldiers to achieve his goal of protecting Nino...He would do whatever it took, no matter how obvious the evidence of an assassin amongst them became.

The pursuing soldier was looking around curiously now, torch held high in one hand as he paced the length of the tents, a light lance held in the other. His three companions, bearing various axes and swords strapped to their belts, paced forward in annoyance, clearly disliking their friend's behavior.

"You're as bad as Knell! I'll swear on it," one of the axe-bearers growled, holding his torch a little higher.

"I'm not. I swear I saw something around here." The lanceman was looking increasingly miffed as he paced forward.

"You did not. It's late, and you're seeing things, jumping at shadows. Everyone's afraid because of this curse the stupid mages are bringing on us," one of the swordsman said. He sounded distinctly bored.

"Maybe. I don't know..." The lanceman was still moving forward. Five more paces, and he would be within Jaffar's attack range. The assassin tensed, preparing himself. The kill would have to be instant, because he would no doubt suffer the attack of the three other men as soon as he made his presence known.

"Come off it," the third man, also bearing an axe at his belt, commented loudly. "Let's just hit the--"

There was a scream from the other side of the camp. Startled, all four of the soldiers whipped around to locate the source, hands fleeing to their weapons immediately. Even Jaffar looked up in wary surprise from the safety of his shadows, for across the camp the first visible tongues of flame were leaping over the tents into the night air.

The supply convoy was burning.

-----

Matthew withdrew deeply into the flickering shadows that the flames not feet from him cast, surveying his handiwork with grim satisfaction.

He had known something was wrong. It was an instinct, almost; a natural wariness that someone with years of experience as a spy possessed, had come to trust over even intellectual reasoning. He had not liked the way he knew nothing about the mage's interpretation of their kinsmen's sudden deaths, and something about it had screamed of a trap.

He had tried to warn Jaffar, but the assassin had been intent on his work and had ignored him. An annoyance—he had cursed the former Fang's ignorance repeatedly—but a part of him understood Jaffar's thought process enough to comprehend his reasoning. There was nothing Mat could do to stop him, but he could pose a distraction as a counter-trap when Jaffar sprang it, and so he had darted into the night to find such a solution.

And chaos was always a fine distraction.

Pillaging the supply convoy for their final stores of food, it had taken him only moments to determine the exact method of that chaos. They would be discovered when the trap was sprung; the best thing he could do was hide that discovery for a little while, and severely hinder the Fang's company to the point where they were crippled.

Coming across a torch was easy, and implementing his plan had been even easier. Sweeping his cloak across the flames to hide them, he had waited until a particularly jarring _boom _from the bolting storm rolled across the camp, and a vivid flash of lightning was viewed not far away. Timing them carefully, he tossed the flaming brand into the food wagon and backpedaled hurriedly to make sure he was not seen.

The fire took almost immediately, fed by food stores and the dry wood of the wagon, and within moments the flames were roaring merrily into the air. It did not take long for off-shooting embers and tongues of flame to catch the other wagons in the convoy, or drip onto the tents and send their weak fabrics alight.

And now Matthew stood, watching the flames soar into the night sky. He observed them for several moments, timing them carefully, and then burst into a sudden bought of screaming. "_Help! The supply wagons! Hurry!_"

Other soldiers were already running in the direction of the wagons, screaming and yelling frantically. The red gleam of armor and cloaks were everywhere, and in the haste and panic of the men no one noticed that one red-cloaked figure did not belong.

Matthew used this to his advantage. Ducking into the shadows enough that his face could not be recognized, he deepened his voice into a passable imitation of the first soldier they had heard on that patrol two nights ago. "It's those damn mages agin'! They're messin' with nature where they don't belong! That lightin' did this to us, they can't even control their own magic anymore!"

The Fang soldiers heard the cry and noted the familiarity, and did not think to question its source. Taking up the call, they began to scream their panicked accusations: "It's the mages' fault!" "They did this, they can fix it!" "The curse is growing stronger all because of them!"

The call for the mages to fix the mess they had made was especially loud, and Matthew sank carefully back into what little shadow there was, observing, waiting. _There_—not three minutes after the fire had started (it was already beginning to consume the outlying tents) one of the mages had appeared, tossing off her uniform short red cloak to free herself from the heat as she began her spellcasting.

Chaos was everywhere. Soldiers were running to and fro, dragging water where they could to help douse the flames, though most of their water had been stored in the supply wagons that were now crackling merrily. Men bumped into men, horses and wyvern screamed and cried from the outskirts of the camp, and the wounded and dead were already beginning to litter the ground. The mage was the only one to remain calm and unaffected. Her casting was suppressing the fire somewhat, but she seemed the only one with any luck in the situation at all. No one was watching her but Matthew.

It was the only chance he would get. Tucking his head as firmly into the material of his red cloak as he could to hide his face (he really needed a hood, he reflected), the thief darted forward among the enemy soldiers. He dodged to and fro about them, but most in their haste only noticed the uniform color of his cloak and assumed he was of their company; none looked at his face. So it was that he passed in broad sight of most of his enemies, hidden in the light.

The female spellcaster was in his sights. She had stepped closer to the fire in order to sustain her ice spell without the hindering distance, and was unaware of her surroundings but for the towering flame. Soldiers passed close to her and about her, but she paid little attention, and they gave her none of theirs.

Matthew was close now, and she was still unsuspecting. There was no better moment then now. With a last furtive look around him, he darted in close behind her, and with muscles tensed and ready lashed out at her with a sudden and vicious shove.

She tottered in surprise, stumbled forward, and looked around wildly, spotting the traces of a frayed red cloak and dirty blonde hair slipping away as she did so. And then she screamed as her unsteady staggering brought her face-first into the towering, vicious flames, already eagerly beginning to consume her clothing, her hair, her flesh.

Matthew blocked out the scream grimly and darted away through the crowds, dodging and weaving skillfully, still hidden in the open. It was a grisly end, but there was no other way—they were surely discovered now, and could not afford any further setbacks, or Lord Hector, Lord Eliwood, and the army would surely perish. No one had seen him, and if they had, it would have looked merely as though he had run into her, knocked her aside by accident.

He slid to and fro, whipped around the rushing, panicked soldiers, and plunged into the sudden darkness of the tents with nothing less than sheer relief. Yet he did not let himself stop, but kept moving as silently as the night, sliding into deeper and deeper patches of darkness that promised sanctuary until he was finally blessedly free of the Fang encampment.

There was a flicker of movement beside him. Without hesitation Matthew drew his silver dagger, slashing out in defense as he strained to make himself aware of his surroundings. His blade met with a light _clang _with that of his opponent's, and after a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him enough to spot the blood-red dagger that had blocked his own.

"Jaffar." Never had Matthew thought he would find himself so relieved to see the assassin. But he was high-strung and hypersensitive to his enemies' movements now, and it would undoubtedly be a blessing to have Jaffar as an ally in the coming hours.

"Matthew..." came the return greeting, and the two withdrew their blades carefully...but neither sheathed them. They were all too aware of the dangers now, and would not relinquish their weapons for anything.

"...Did you cause that?" the assassin questioned, after a moment's silence, indicating the flames still towering into the sky.

"Yes," the spy answered shortly. "We've been found out. I've bought us a little time—they'll be distracted with the fire and won't think about us until it's close to over, most likely. But it still only gives us a few hours."

"Yes." Another pause, and then softly, "...it was a trap."

"Yeah. I figured."

Jaffar eyed him with what passed for confusion for the mostly-emotionless man. "...and this was why you lit the convoy on fire?"

"You were going to get caught. We can't afford that yet." Matthew's voice was businesslike, determined, but still grim.

"...I see."

"We need to figure out a plan in what time we have left," the Ostian continued, already shifting into the darkness as he moved. "I managed to get one of the mages while she was fighting the fire, but that still leaves three--"

"I killed two."

Matthew paused, glanced behind him at the assassin. "Two?"

"...There were two waiting in the tent you indicated. That was the trap...they both suspected." Jaffar's voice was quiet, expressionless, but the spy had a suspicion he was not pleased about walking into a trap of such nature.

"Well." Matthew thought carefully, weighing the odds in his mind. "We've gotten rid of six of the mages, then. That leaves one more. I'm sure a good many soldiers will die in that blaze, and on top of that their supplies have been destroyed. They'll be crippled. So we have a shot succeeding, but it's going to be a race...because they know we're here." He did not look happy.

Jaffar looked determined, but understood the dangers well. His hands tightened on his matched blood-red daggers in preparation.

The messengers of death in the darkness had nearly succeeded. But what would happen when the hunters became the hunted?

-----

And that's that, yet another chapter completed. There should be one more chapter coming along, possibly with an epilogue after that, so I encourage you to return for the 'final installment.'

Several of you commented last chapter on Matthew's dislike of assassination work, saying you think he wouldn't mind as much as he is in this particular fic. I've considered this, but I disagree in part, and let me explain why. I agree with you that under other circumstances he probably wouldn't care that much, such as if he were stuck in the Eye with someone like Hector, Eliwood, or various other 'good' characters in his view. But I think that when paired with somebody he _hates _in this mission, he would do anything to prove he's _not like _the number one person he despises with a passion. Jaffar killed his girlfriend; the last thing Mathew would want to do is admit to himself he's more than willing to use the same methods as Jaffar to get his work done. Hopefully, after reading this chapter you can begin to see where I'm going with this reasoning. If not, hang tight a little while longer, and it will be resolved by the end of the fic.

You ought to know the drill by now...if you leave a review, _please _give it some substance. Tell me why you liked this chapter, why you didn't, what you thought could be improved, what you thought was done well. The constructive criticism really does work wonders for me!

--Velkyn Karma


	6. Kellot

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part six of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story, and a few minor characters in the Black Fang outfit.

------

"Teamwork is essential. It gives the enemy someone else to shoot at."

-Military saying

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It was past midnight before the blaze towering over Black Fang encampment was reduced from a pillar of light and heat to a few sluggish embers. The shouting of the soldiers within the camp had reduced considerably as well, though whether this was from the end of the calamity or the deaths of many of the men, Matthew and Jaffar could not immediately discover.

The assassin and thief had retreated from the outskirts of the camp as quickly as possible, putting as much distance between themselves and the hunters as they could. It would only be a matter of time before the Fang reorganized itself enough to begin a search-and-destroy mission, and the two had no intent of being present when it began.

They had run for the storm wall as fast as they could, intending to break through and escape to Eliwood's army. With only one mage to support the bolting storm, the power of the bolts and the wind would be lessened severely, and could only last a few hours at best. Even if they could not chance the storm while they were inside the eye, they could simply out-wait its effects and escape freely into the distance when the spellcasting finally died.

But the final mage had thought too quickly for them. The storm seemed, if possible, even more violent and raging than ever before at its center, and the edges of the eye had become perilous. Soldiers of the Black Fang were already beginning to patrol at its borders, searching with torches held high, and once the men of shadow had heard the call of a wyvern some distance away.

It was too dangerous to stay at the outskirts of the eye's radius, and so Matthew and Jaffar had reluctantly slipped back into the inner ring to avoid detection and remain in the shadows. They were forced to keep moving or risk being caught, and had stayed as close together as possible, finding safety in the little number they had.

Until now. After wandering for close to an hour, Matthew had finally halted them, looking grim. "We can't keep running like this," he had said flatly. "If we don't know what they're doing, we can't counter it effectively. I'll see if I can sneak close enough to figure out what's going on." And he had darted off into the darkness, leaving Jaffar behind—one would have a better chance of uncovering information successfully than two, they had agreed. And should Matthew be caught, Jaffar would still be free to act.

That had been close to three-quarters of an hour ago, Jaffar figured, as he circled around the encampment at a safe distance, picking his way through the shadows to his rendezvous point with the thief. Plenty of time for a spy of Matthew's caliber to wring out the information they needed to know. And plenty of time for the assassin to contemplate, to try and work through his own confusion.

Matthew had saved his life.

Despite his burning hatred and scathing retorts, the Ostian had predicted the danger of his methods and had countered them, saving his life. Yes, he could have defeated the few soldiers that had chased him originally; but that would have been at the cost of revealing his identity, and that would have sealed Jaffar's doom. The Black Fang knew his abilities too well, and they would have run him into the ground, chasing the Angel of Death with their full power. With Matthew's distraction, he had been able to escape.

The thief was not only completing the goal of elimination, but protecting his allies in the process. Matthew's objectives had changed in this mission, then...at least in part.

What of his own? He was sure he had been acting purely for Nino. That was his purpose, for now; to keep her safe, to keep her free from the blood in the world. But had his own objectives changed, without his own notice?

He supposed it would be difficult to complete the mission without Matthew's aid. The former Fang was used to working alone, completing an objective without the aid of any other being, at the risk of having his own life taken. But Matthew had proved himself useful, clever, and fully capable of completing the goal set before them, and Jaffar was beginning to wonder if he could finish this dangerous mission on his own.

Would he, too, protect an ally if it came to it? One that had nothing to do with his purpose whatsoever, one that hated his very existence, would love to see him dead in any other opportunity?

He was unable to discover the answer to his own question, for at that moment there was a rustle to his side, and a figure darted out of the gloom. Jaffar raised his blood-red daggers warningly, but recognized the silver dagger that rose in response. He relaxed slightly. "What news?"

Matthew shifted slightly and sheathed his own dagger, but his voice sounded urgent, worried. "Nothing good. We've got a big problem." Jaffar greeted the spy with his usual response—silence--and the Ostian continued, knowing the pointlessness of waiting for his companion to answer. "The last magic user is Arellen, their leader. He's stronger than the other spellcasters and can sustain the storm longer than they could...close to three and a half hours, from what I could gather. And," he added, his voice and expression taking a dark tone, "they're moving."

Jaffar's eyes flickered slightly, the closest to an expression of surprise that he would ever come. "How?"

"They're desperate. All the other mages are dead. Arellen is their last chance at eradicating Lord Eliwood and his followers. He plans to move forward to wipe out the army with the last of his strength. They've already broken camp and had just started moving when I arrived." Matthew grimaced. "We've miscalculated. I caught just a glimpse of Arellen through the crowds of soldiers guarding him, but I could have sworn I saw something glowing on his finger."

"What does this indicate?" Jaffar asked, his otherwise expressionless face showing a tiny shadow of confusion.

The spy explained almost mechanically as he set into a walk, the assassin following alongside. "It means he's probably wearing a guiding ring. Pent wears one—you've probably spotted him in the army. Those rings are only awarded by the Council of Athos to spellcasters who exhibit high magical aptitude, strength or knowledge. It's a symbol of another level of power entirely...Arellen isn't a mage. He's been awarded the title of _sage._"

"Then he is very powerful..." Jaffar murmured, understanding the dangerous implications.

"And well guarded,_ and _moving in on the army. If we don't find a way to stop him, everyone in Eliwood's company will be killed before the storm wears out."

"Then we must stop him before they can move any further," the assassin said, voice emotionless. His hands rested on the curved daggers at his sides, already prepared to use them.

"Easier said than done," Matthew answered flatly. "I estimate they lost about seven or eight men in that fire, but that still leaves over twenty soldiers to deal with—and many of them mounted. The two wyvern are out patrolling for us on the outskirts of the eye's radius, fortunately, along with a few others. That's still about fifteen or more soldiers guarding Arellen while he works, and that's not taking into account the patrol reinforcements, _or _Arellen's own prowess in fighting." He gave Jaffar a grim look. "And no shadows. They've flooded their company with enough torches that there's no way to sneak in and eliminate their leader before they can react."

"It matters little. This Arellen must die before he can harm the army." The assassin's imagination was limited, but he was very familiar with dead bodies of all sorts. Even the hazy image of Nino, dead, burned, and slashed to pieces, was enough to make his blood boil and his heart fill with...regret? Fear? He was not entirely sure.

Matthew, surprisingly, nodded in agreement. "You're right. We just need to figure out _how_." He looked frustrated, tired, but utterly determined.

"How are they arranged?" the assassin asked after a moment, mind spinning rapidly as he searched for a solution to their predicament.

"Too evenly," the spy answered, eyes narrowing slightly as he caught on to his companion's reasoning. "There are a lot of foot soldiers, but they're never too far from a man on horseback. There was only one point that displayed a slight weakness." He paused, crouched slightly to meld himself more firmly into the shadows, and raised a warning finger to his lips to indicate silence, wariness. Jaffar nodded, understanding, and seemed to melt into the shadows as well as he crouched beside the thief.

Matthew inched forward carefully, and the assassin followed his lead silently, waiting. After several minutes they came to a stop, the Ostian throwing his arm out to the side to halt them. He pointed with one finger. The former Fang's eyes followed in the indicated direction obediently.

The soft glow of firelight was already visible over the hilly plains, and after several moments distinct shapes began to come over the rise, approaching quickly. Matthew had circled around and ahead of the soldiers by several minutes, anticipating their movements with the perfect skills of a spy.

"Watch their left flank when they pass," Matthew almost breathed, so soft and wispy was his voice, but Jaffar heard it. He nodded quietly, hunkering down a little further into the darkness as did so.

The remainder of the Black Fang company was already close enough for the sharp eyes of the men of shadow to distinguish between the facial features of its members. Every soldier held a torch high in the darkness; some held two, while others kept firm hands rested on their weapons of choice. Their eyes moved warily, watching the darkness with distinct unease, but the closeness of the other soldiers seemed to give them a sense of security. The gazes of many of them passed right over the hidden thief and assassin, all but invisible just outside the ring of torchlight the Fang had created.

Jaffar studied their arrangement carefully, searching for any potential weakness with a trained eye. As Matthew had said, the horsemen were arranged carefully throughout the company, never far from any collection of two or three infantrymen. However, there were several clustered particularly tight at the center of the formation, leaving the left flank (closest to them) with a slight imbalance of horsemen to footmen. There were a few more unmounted soldiers than those on steeds, mostly carrying a collection of swords and axes. If there were ever a place to attack the Fang company from, it would be here.

"Arellen's at the center," Matthew said softly as the company passed, leaning close to his companion to make sure he was heard. "Getting to him before we're killed is going to be all but impossible." He eyed the brightly lit torches, painful in contrast to the deep darkness of the night.

The assassin nodded quietly, thumbs running over the hilts of his daggers as he thought. The company was past them now, and so the two men of shadows stood, ghosting alongside the Fang troop, unnoticed and unheard.

"We have no choice but to attack outright..." Jaffar finally said, watching the Fang's weak side as he moved. There were three swordsmen, two axemen, and a man on horseback that carried a lance firmly in his gloved hand. The cavalier would present the most challenge, but if he could be removed quickly, they could perhaps buy themselves a few seconds.

"Speed is our ally," the assassin continued, after a moment. "If we attack quickly, we can drop their numbers before they rally and counterattack..."

Matthew's hand was resting on the hilt of his sheathed silver dagger as he moved. "There's no guarantee we'll make it," he countered, testing the plan carefully. "Those mounted men are too dangerous...and almost all of them are using lances. We won't be able to get within their range."

"I will remove the first horseman," Jaffar said, pointing at the cavalier nearest them, guarding the left flank. "He will be my first target...it will remove some of the danger, before they are aware of us."

The spy eyed the mounted man in question, nodded grimly. "I'll bring down some of those men on foot," he said flatly. "Start a path towards Arellen." There was not much he could do with a single dagger in melee combat, but he would do whatever it took to protect Lord Hector and the others.

Jaffar nodded, his blood-red daggers already sliding free from their sheathes without so much as a ring of sound. He bent down slightly, darted forward just ahead of the company to choose a good position, and Matthew followed on his heels in pure, unmarked silence, eyes narrowed.

They crouched, waited, watched. As the company began to approach their new position, Matthew spoke once more, his voice almost silent, his tone urgent. "Above all else, stay together. If we're separated, they can pick us off easily. If we remain together, they'll have a harder time getting to us, and we may live through this after all."

Jaffar nodded. "Yes. Agreed."

"On my mark. One..."

A shift of weight, hearts thudding, muscles tensed and quivering. Yet despite the tension of the wait, the intensity of their mission, both men of shadow remained quiet and prepared, daggers drawn and ready to taste blood.

"Two..."

The company approached, advancing on the helpless army at their fingertips, unaware of the ambush awaiting them.

"Three..."

The Fang members were now so close that the skilled eyes of the thief and assassin could make out individual hairs on the soldier's heads, the buckles and clips on their armor...and all the unprotected weak points that their daggers all but cried to be sent home to.

"Now!"

Muscles exploded into action, cloaks unfurled behind them as they leaped forward. Yet silence dominated utterly, completely, and the Black Fang was unaware of the nightmare awaiting them until it erupted from the shadows in a flash of narrowed amber eyes and glinting, bloodied steel.

-----

"It's moving closer!"

Erk's warning yell rang through the cavern loudly, his echoing voice bounding off the stone walls and awakening all those behind him. The magic users residing in the cave snapped awake immediately, their blurry eyes struggling to comprehend movements through the gloom of the night.

Pent was the first to react, leaping to his feet and moving hastily to his student's side. His movements were too quick, and Louise leaped up after him, supporting him with her shoulder hurriedly as the Mage-General stumbled wearily. He had spent another long day supporting the magical shields that protected the army hidden in the string of caves, and was still drained because of it.

"Are you sure?" The Etrurian asked quietly, looking out through the gloom at the lashing bolts not even a mile distant.

"Positive," Erk confirmed, his voice sounding just as tired as his teacher's. "I've been studying the relation of the bolts to landmarks in the plains...they are unquestionably coming closer."

Pent frowned. "Then we must be ready." He turned to look over his shoulder at the exhausted group of spellcasters behind him struggling wearily to their feet. The lords, also now awake, were making themselves useful and helping the magic users to stand. Lyn was aiding a rather limp Nino, while Eliwood had one of Canas' dark-robed arms over his shoulders, and Hector was hefting a tired Lucius rather unceremoniously to his feet with one hand.

The Mage-General eyed the weary faces, understanding well their fatigue, but it could not be helped. "We must work together now more than ever to sustain the shields, or we will perish," he said, his voice as firm as he could make it. "Are you all ready?"

They were exhausted, but every single one of them nodded in determination, even the little Nino. They stepped forward as one, readying what little magics they had left, drawing magical tomes free from pouches and satchels to aid with the process as best they could.

"Is there anything we can do to aid you, Lord Pent?" Eliwood questioned, as he relinquished Canas' arm to allow the shaman to work. He gestured to himself and the two lords beside him. All three looked eager to help as best as able, willing even to act as runners despite their regal status.

Pent considered tiredly, but nodded after a few moments. "Before the storm truly approaches," he said slowly, "we must collect any magical items that Merlinus has stored in his wagons. Tomes, staves, amulets, any weaponry infused with magical powers. If it becomes necessary, I will drain the magic from them to sustain the shields myself." He looked determined, despite the trembles of fatigue that passed through his body. Louise stepped forward to steady him once more, a silent support for her husband.

Eliwood nodded immediately and set off through the cave entrance to collect the necessary items and spread the word to the other army members. Hector thudded and clanked after him, his great strength and size a valuable asset in carrying the necessary items from Merlinus' carts to the magic users who needed them.

"And me?" Lyndis asked, standing tall and ready before the Etrurian man.

Pent allowed himself to lean a little further against his wife for just a moment, and then answered, "Pillars of strength." The Caelin lady gave him a baffled look, and the silver-haired man explained, "for those of us sustaining the shields. It will be difficult to continue without aid, even of a non-magical variety." His gaze moved to Louise, and Lyn nodded, suddenly understanding.

"Of course."

"And the healers," Pent added, as Lyn began moving for the cavern entrance. "They will be able to restore our strength, if but a little." Lyn nodded again and vanished into the night, her long hair swirling out behind her as she ran.

"Now then," the Mage-General said, as he turned to the rest of the spellcasters present, gently pushing his wife away to stand on his own. "If you would concentrate your energies once more..." They complied, some closing their eyes to focus more firmly, others clutching spellbooks, and Lucius placed both hands over his heart in a gesture of prayer.

The Etrurian sage collected their energies together, bent and wove it to his will under years of skill. Moving slowly, as if in a trance, the man's hands began to gesture into the air, sketching arcane magical runes as he worked. The guiding ring on his finger glowed brightly, leaving glimmering traces of his handwork hovering brightly in the air before it faded into nothingness.

This was the last chance they would have, he knew, as the magics filtered into the intangible material of the shields, strengthening them. The coming storm was a terrible one, and he could sense it powerfully in the air about him. And so he worked, and prayed, and hoped they would not be too late to protect themselves before the time they had left inevitably ran down to its death.

-----

Jaffar hit the first cavalier in a rush of speed, his blood-red daggers flashing so quickly that the man was unable to follow the path of the blades. The assassin worked skillfully, quickly, both curved blades digging deeply into the unprotected stomach of the horseman, just under his armor.

The soldier screamed in surprise and pain, flailing his lance weakly in response, but Jaffar was already too deeply inside his range for the long weapon to be effective. His hooked daggers dug more firmly into the cavalier's flesh, and with a vicious jerk the assassin dragged him from the beast, withdrawing his weapons as the man collapsed beneath his panicking horse. He drew back almost immediately, launching for a second man as the now-unmounted cavalier met his end at the hooves of his own loyal steed.

Beside him Matthew was wreaking havoc as well, his silver dagger plunging into the heart of an unsuspecting swordsman as he ripped from the darkness. The man dropped without a cry, with only a bewildered expression plastered for the remainder of his existence upon his face, and the spy withdrew his silver blade quickly, slashing at the throat of another swordsman.

Four men were dead in less than thirty seconds, and panicked shouts had begun to ring in the air as the soldiers tried to understand what was happening to them. But now they were beginning to rally as they spotted their dead companions and the two unwanted hunters in their midst, and those on the left flank were already pressing closer to the men of shadow, weapons drawn.

It was time for Jaffar to play his second card. Whirling quickly, he lunged at the next of the approaching soldiers, one of the axemen, his red daggers flashing dully in the torchlight. The man had a vicious expression on his face as he raised his ax for a killing strike, but froze in mid-swing as he suddenly recognized the cowled face rushing towards him.

"The Angel of Death!" he screamed, backpedaling instinctively in fear. "The Angel of Death is h--"

He was unable to call further; one of Jaffar's curved weapons had already ripped into his throat, silencing him forever. He dropped like a stone, and the assassin whirled immediately on the next of the swordsmen, blades flashing.

The two remaining on the left flank recoiled hastily, fearful of the man whose skill was legendary among the Fang. The brief pause in battle, their momentary hesitance in raising their weapons, cost them their lives. Matthew dived forward quickly, and with a flash of silver and a pained howl the last of the swordsmen dropped. The final axemen met a similar fate at the hands of the Angel of Death he so rightfully feared.

Six dead.

The company was in chaos now, but over the yells of panic and surprise a new voice, a strong, powerful voice, called. It screamed orders, drove the soldiers to action, provided a sense of order among the chaos, and with something to rally to the Black Fang obeyed.

The horsemen pressed forward now, five men on horseback with lances held at the ready, and behind them more foot soldiers wielding axes and swords followed. They circled close, pressing the thief and assassin back, swinging and jabbing with their lances as their targets were trapped within the press of Fang men.

Jaffar backed up skillfully, avoiding the thrusts jabs of the long weaponry with the agility he had developed over years in his profession. Each step he took was one of practiced ease, held the careful rhythm of a master of shadows, expert of blades, and he avoided injury almost gracefully.

His back pressed suddenly against another, and with a quick glance over his shoulder he recognized his ally, met amber eyes for the tiniest second. There was some comfort in that, he thought for the briefest of moments. If they were still together they stood a chance of surviving their rapidly spiraling situation. And guarding each others' backs as they now were, the chances of dying of a fatal wound from behind lessened considerably.

The horsemen circled closer now, hoping to wound their quarry dangerously before allowing the footmen to finish them off. The lances thrust quickly now, aiming for vital points, for weapon-bearing limbs, for the heads of their foe.

But in a battle of speed, the cavaliers paled in comparison to the men of shadow. Jaffar's daggers were spread in a defensive formation, and they batted aside the lance jabs carefully. Matthew used a similar technique with his one weapon, and snatched at other lances with his free hand when he could, hoping to wrench the weapons away from his enemies to protect themselves further.

It was a fair defense given their situation, but it would not last long. Even now, both thief and assassin were sustaining minor wounds from the blades of the lances, and they would wear out eventually under the continuous attacks.

Worst of all, they were not moving forward, were not even within sight of the mysterious Arellen. If they failed here, Eliwood's army would die...and they could not allow that.

"Offensive," Jaffar rasped over his shoulder, as he swung one of his hooked daggers powerfully, knocking aside a particularly vicious jab from one of the horsemen's lances. "Now."

Matthew was busy combating another lance, grimacing briefly as he took a mild slash to his shoulder, but he shouted back as loudly as he dared. "To the left. Silver-trimmed armor."

The assassin's eyes searched keenly, picked out the cavalier in question after only seconds. Matthew's eyes were sharp; this man seemed the weakest of all those on horseback, would be their best chance of breaking from the dangerous ring towards their goal.

"When?" he called back, voice hoarse from the heavy breathing and exertion of the battle.

"Now!" Matthew yelled again, the second time within five minutes, and as one the two men of shadow lunged for their target, blades flashing.

The Fang member looked surprised as his enemies leaped for him, and in a sudden panic he jabbed his lance in Matthew's direction, hoping to skewer the spy. But the Ostian was too quick for him and rolled away from the attack, knocking the lance wide in the process. His action left the cavalier vulnerable, and with a sudden burst of speed Jaffar pressed in for the killing stroke, both daggers rushing home into the man's stomach to the music of wails and screams.

The circle was now broken, and both Matthew and Jaffar pressed out, even as the remaining horsemen broke formation to give chase. But now the waiting footmen outside the ring shoved forward, weapons drawn, to engage with the escaped hunters.

Bodies were everywhere now, pressed so close that it was difficult to move forward, and the air was a cacophony of shouting and screaming. In the distance Jaffar was sure he could hear the feral roar of a wyvern, and he knew instinctively that the patrols were moving in as reinforcements. They did not have much time left, and still had yet to kill their target.

He whirled to his left as a man with long dark hair and an exquisite looking scimitar lashed at him, raising one of his bloodied daggers to parry. Furious, his opponent began to draw his blade back once more, assuming an exotic looking stance.

The assassin never gave him a chance to complete his maneuver. His twin daggers worked quickly, one hooked blade trapping the scimitar with the unusual notch on the inside of his weapon, the other plunging with utmost certainty into man's throat. The man's hand opened, his eyes rolled, the scimitar dropped unnoticed to the ground, and Jaffar spun on instinct, just in time to avoid the broadsword that crashed into the ground from behind him.

_Behind him?_

He dispatched the Fang swordsman quickly as the man struggled to drag his sword free from the hilly ground, but his mind was not on the kill. Matthew should have been behind him, guarding his back as they had planned. But Matthew was gone, and Jaffar was suddenly aware that he was surrounded by foe alone on all sides.

He and Matthew had been separated in the press of bodies. The assassin knew, almost instinctively, that his chances of succeeding in the mission—or indeed, living at all—had just been cut in half. But it mattered little now. All that mattered was that Arellen had to die, or Nino would.

He dodged aside quickly as a lance thudded into the ground where he had stood moments previously, but was not swift enough to avoid a light slash on the side of his leg. It was inconsequential. He spun, engaging an axeman as he struggled in vain to push forward, towards what he was sure was Arellen's location.

It was like trying to dig a hole in the sand; with every scoop taken away, more grains would trickle unmercifully back into place, and he would never get any farther. Jaffar whirled, slashed, dodged, moved in a deadly, graceful dance, but his efforts to move forward yielded no rewards. Indeed, it took everything he had to simply defend himself from the press of soldiers, mounted and on foot, that circled him, much less move forward two or three steps. He gained, but not productively, not enough to protect the army, to protect Nino.

The scream of the wyvern were overhead now, and in a rushed glance he could spot the matched beasts circling overhead, enticed by the smell of blood. But they could not attack without injuring their fellow Fang members, Jaffar knew, and now the press of bodies around him had become his shield. He ducked further in, pressed onward, and willed himself to keep fighting, keep moving _forward._

The chaos around him shifted for just a few moments, and he spotted a glimpse of amber through the mass of soldiers. Matthew! His dirty blond hair and the silver flash of his now-bloodied intricate dagger were unmistakable, and the assassin was surprised to find his companion some ways ahead of him. Somehow, Matthew had managed to press through the mass of soldiers, push his way a little closer to their goal, to where he was sure Arellen stood commanding the storm.

Jaffar paused briefly to slash the throat from another offending axeman, and his quick gaze darted back to find Matthew once more. The thief's progress seemed halted for the moment; he was engaged in combat with a particularly strong swordsman that deflected Matthew's offenses with a large shield strapped to one arm. But with Matthew's skill and speed it seemed only a matter of moments before he had dropped the man and would be able to press forward towards their target.

The assassin dodged aside from another blow quickly, and his sharp eyes spotted the cavalier charging behind his ally, lance drawn back to plunge between the spy's shoulder blades. Matthew had now managed to slip his blade into his current opponent's heart, but there was no way he would be able to dodge the deathblow coming for him in his position, if he had even noticed the horseman charging him...

His earlier question of himself, of his own nature, rushed back to him in a sudden cold frenzy. _Would he protect an ally if it came to it, the man that would kill him in any other circumstance but this?_ He had not answered himself before, had never discovered his own response.

His response came now, not in words but in action. Drawing back the blood-red, hooked dagger in his right hand, he reversed its grip, sighted carefully, and threw the weapon with all the power he could muster.

Curved blades such as the ones he owned were not truly meant for throwing, but Jaffar was a master of his trade and had perfected every aspect of killing with his favored weapons. Thus it was that the blade spun, flickering droplets of blood into the fray like rain, and thudded with gruesome accuracy into the attacking cavalier's throat.

The man gurgled in surprise, dropped his lance to claw at his neck, and Matthew whirled in time to see the horse charging wildly at him, rider writhing atop it. Leaping aside to avoid the flashing hooves, the spy spotted the all-too-familiar dagger protruding from the man's throat. He turned quickly, searching for the fraction of a second he could spare, and for just one moment amber eyes met blood red ones through the chaos of the soldiers.

But then the mass seemed to swallow them up again, and Jaffar slid aside quickly to avoid the massive ax that sliced through the air, nearly beheading him. His mind turned its laser focus on the attacking opponent, and he spun his remaining blood-red dagger to a better position, lunging forward to rip the throat from the giant of a man before him.

The assassin pressed forward another few paces, but now the surge of attackers around him was thickening even further. The remaining members of the Fang could see his accumulating wounds, his blood spilling, his tiring form, and those mortal traits seemed to encourage them, build upon their frenzy. Every last Fang soldier wanted to be the one to tear the life away from the Angel of Death himself, to bask in the glory of Nergal when such an honored task was completed. They shoved forward in a rush to meet their target.

Jaffar was equal to them. Those that approached died, their stomachs and throats ripped open, their hearts pierced. But his efficiency was dropped considerably with the loss of his second dagger. He had no way to recover the weapon, and could not use it to parry the attacks around him while he went on the offensive with his second blade. The assassin was still skilled in the use of a single dagger, but with the press of bodies all around him it did not do him much good. Already the pains of minor wounds and gashes were tracing his body, evidence of attacks he could not completely dodge or block in his confined space.

Still he pressed on, single-minded determination and utter focus fueling him. Another soldier dead; another step forward. And another. And another. A little ground gained, a little more closer to his goal.

There was a glimmer through the press of bodies ahead of him, a soft unnatural glow that could not be more than two yards from his position. Pressing forward with a sudden surge of energy, Jaffar lashed out powerfully with his single hooked dagger, ripping the throat and jaw from an ambitious swordsman standing in front of him. The man dropped, and the assassin ghosted over his body, moving forward into the slightly more open space beyond with a burst of speed.

And there he was. There was no mistaking his target; the man standing only feet from him, dressed in billowing red robes with delicate gold trim and a glowing ring on his finger, could not be any other man but Arellen. The sage was gesturing into the air ever so slightly as he worked his bolting spell, and his utterly calm demeanor in the midst of battle was almost chilling. He did not seem to have noticed Jaffar's presence.

The former Fang would not have cared if Arellen was staring directly at him or not. His target was in front of him, his mission nearly complete. Nino would be safe soon. Dagger raised, Jaffar leaped forward, the hooked blade swinging in a perfect arc for the enemy spellcaster's throat.

A searing pain ripped through his awareness all too suddenly, and his vision flashed bone-white as his senses struggled to reorient themselves. It took only a few moments for the assassin to register what had happened, but to him it felt a lifetime, balanced so precariously it was on seconds of utmost importance.

But then he knew, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the lance thrusting into his shoulder from behind. His right arm slumped almost immediately from the blow, and it was only due to Jaffar's extensive training that he managed to keep a hold on his only weapon instead of dropping it reflexively. Even so, his fingers trembled on the hilt of the blade, struggling with their efforts.

The weight of the blade in his weakened hand was nothing compared to the weight of realization that thudded almost painfully onto his shoulders. The lance user—a man on horseback behind him, he now recognized—had effectively halted his attack, slowed him for the fraction of a second he would have needed to kill Arellen. Even now the remaining men on foot were swarming forward, forming a protective barrier between their leader and the hunter amongst them. He had lost his chance...he had failed.

Nino would die.

The thought spurred him into further action, and he wrenched his shoulder free from the tip of the lance in another fiery burst of pain, switching his curved dagger to his left hand as he did so. Another surge of energy possessed him, and he launched himself forward into the defensive wall of soldiers, engaging with another ax-wielder.

But now the remaining four horsemen were pressing inward, circling him with their thundering steeds and dangerous lances, forcing him back. Within moments the assassin found himself once again a prisoner, trapped among his enemy...but this time he had no cover from behind. He was alone, vulnerable, and he recognized it.

The cavaliers laughed, jabbed lightly at the weakened Angel of Death with their lances. Jaffar knocked the weapons aside with his dagger and arm as best as he was able, focusing on his own survival for the present. But his eyes continued to glance in Arellen's direction, and his mind whirled frantically, still searching for some way—any way—to eliminate him.

As if he could sense Jaffar's eyes, the spellcaster turned suddenly, his deep blue irises glimmering in dark amusement in the torchlight. He tossed his cloak over his shoulder casually, brushed his hand absently through his short-cropped blond hair, and then suddenly spoke.

"The Angel of Death." Arellen's voice was deeper and louder than Jaffar had anticipated, and his voice held a tone of an almost evil amusement, mixed with a touch of fury. "So it was you who has been causing us all these problems."

Jaffar did not answer, instead smashing aside one of the lances that jabbed at his torso before it could pierce a hole in his stomach. His gaze still flickered constantly, looking skillfully for an opening to present itself, for a chance at the sage's life. Nino could not be allowed to die. She couldn't. No matter the cost.

Arellen seemed familiar with the former Fang's customary silence and continued, one hand waving casually to direct the bolting as he did so. "Master Nergal is not pleased with you, Jaffar."

Silence.

"In fact," the sage said, taking a casual step forward, "I would say he is most grieved that you would betray him, Jaffar."

Still there was no response.

"Are you not ashamed that you have made our Master grieve so, Jaffar?" Arellen asked, a cunning smirk slipping onto his face as he took another step forward.

"Nergal is no longer my master," the assassin responded flatly. He batted aside another lance, ignored the burning pain in his side as a second of the weapons slashed at his ribs.

"No longer your master!" the sage repeated. His voice displayed shock, but his facial features showed only sadistic glee. "You have renounced Nergal? Your true master, who sacrificed so much to make you strong?"

Again Jaffar said nothing, his blood-red eyes rising to meet the gaze of his target. His dagger tightened in his hand. He would try to throw it, but the angle was all wrong, and the soldiers standing in between himself and Arellen would likely block the maneuver before it was completed...

"This is truly a cruel and lamentable day," the sage sighed, shaking his head in mock distress. "I shall have to inform Master Nergal of your complete and utter treachery. But not all is lost." He smirked, his expression dark, haunting, as he locked eyes with the assassin. He raised one arm, began weaving a spell.

"That you are a traitor is a most unfortunate thing, but for Master Nergal's sake I shall eliminate you. For your crimes against the very man who gave you the strength and title of the Angel of Death, you deserve to die." The man continued his casting, and Jaffar could could feel the temperature rising around him at an almost unbearable rate, as if the very fires of hell were preparing to burst from the ground beneath his feet. The soldiers backed away nervously, the horsemen keeping Jaffar just within lance distance while moving away from the dangerous area.

"So," Arellen finished, embers beginning to swirl above his head as his fingers finished tracing the final patterns, "you will--"

The sage paused suddenly, his eyes widening in alarm. Confusion sparked immediately in Jaffar's mind, even as the soldiers about him shifted nervously once more. The man was confident, there was no reason for him to stop like that--

And then Jaffar spotted it; the familiar, curved red dagger that matched the one in his hand perfectly, its bloody tip protruding from Arellen's stomach. It was pressing forward further even as he watched, as though trying to rip itself free from within.

The sage gagged, coughed, spitting blood as he struggled to turn, the embers above him dissipating slowly. His hands dropped immediately, his voice caught has he tried to choke free a spell, and above him the embers began to swirl again...

His choked recitation turned into a scream that cut off abruptly as a second dagger—this one silver—plunged through his neck and throat from behind, perfectly accurate. Arellen trembled, his hands flailing wildly as he tried to regain some control.

He didn't. The daggers twisted sharply in his body; there was a ringing _snap, _and then the final spellcaster jerked, shuddered, and slumped quietly. The lifeless form quivered for the barest of moments on the ends of the blades before they were withdrawn, and Arellen was tossed to the side, revealing his assailant as he thudded dully to the scarred, hilly ground.

Matthew.

The thief stood there surprisingly calmly, expression cold and determined, daggers in hands. Even as they watched he crouched in a defensive position, eying the closest of the soldiers warily.

A stillness seemed to pass through the remaining soldiers, shock and horror reverberating underneath the deceptively calm surface. The kill had taken only seconds, and they were just now beginning to register what had happened.

And then all at once, understanding was restored, and the company burst into chaos. Some men backpedaled, panicking with the death of Arellen, while others leaped forward to attack Matthew, enraged that he had killed their leader. Jaffar was practically forgotten, and he used it to his advantage, darting forward to attack the closest soldier he could reach.

But the sudden resounding _boom _that washed over them halted every single man present, even the men of Eliwood's army. It sounded as though the massive bolting storm they were hidden safely within was closer somehow, and the thunder shook within their very bones. Edgy and confused, soldier and hunter alike turned their eyes to the sky, searching for the barrier line between the eye and the storm.

It was perhaps the only warning they had; a brief glimpse of the stars glimmering just above, only to be swallowed by a blanket of impenetrable darkness. And then the first bolt cracked into their midst, striking a wyvern knight above with such ferocity that both man and beast died instantaneously without a sound. Then came the second bolt, and the third, with such screaming ferocity that they dug holes six feet deep into the ground, ripping the hilly soil to shreds beneath their feet.

With the untimely death of its final master, the bolting storm was collapsing.

Jaffar leaped aside in a rush, avoiding the panicking soldiers as he sheathed his dagger, preventing any draw for the lightning. The remaining Black Fang members were wild now, ignoring him completely in their preoccupation with their own lives, and the assassin was not about to argue. He slipped around the chaotic mass of bodies and pushed towards his ally, coming upon Matthew suddenly.

It was difficult to tell in the darkness that had swooped over them so quickly, but the thief appeared disoriented and was listing slightly. Jaffar assumed he had been hit by shrapnel in one of the blasts. It did not matter—they had to escape the collapsing storm as quickly as they could, and had little time to waste on such problems.

"Hurry!" he yelled over the roar of the storm, placing his head as close to Matthew's as he could to make sure he was heard. His mind fleetingly told him he had been through this situation before, but he ignored it. Such memories were now irrelevant. What was important was escaping.

"Jaffar?" the thief muttered back, his voice hazy, barely heard over the cacophony of the storm. "Is that you?" The daggers raised warily, but he did not outright attack.

"Yes," the assassin responded. "We must escape. Hurry!" he jumped aside quickly to avoid the cast-off rocks of another bolt, far too close for comfort.

Matthew seemed to be regaining his senses now, but still too slowly. "But the storm—there's no safe place to--"

"It does not matter!" Jaffar yelled back sharply. "We have no time. We must take the risk." He grasped the thief's arm firmly with his uninjured hand, tugging sharply in the direction of the storm. The only way to escape, he knew, was to force their way out from the inside.

The Ostian started to protest. "If we go that way we'll die, you idiot!"

"If we stay," Jaffar said in retaliation, "We will surely die as well. We leave _now._" And pulling sharply on the still partly-disoriented thief's arm, he leaped into the nightmare black ahead of him, leading himself and his ally into the thick of the storm.

-----

Phew! So there's chapter six. Bit longer than usual, but it was necessary. And a bit later too, but I'm dealing with homework, and my grade kindasorta comes first. Unfortunately.

I am perfectly aware that, were this a game situation, sticking Mat or Jaffar (or both) on a square with high avoid and giving them a Killing Edge or Wo Dao would mean they would slaughter the entirety of a 20 man army by themselves. I am in fact aware that Jaffar pretty much just that in the chapter where he saves Nino. However this is _not _a game and is handled more realistically, and realistically speaking thieves and assassins are meant for the shadows, not close melee combat. I wrote it as such. Deal.

The final chapter (for real this time) and conclusion will be coming next. I wonder how if our favorite thief and assassin survived...and what about Eliwood's army? All the answers will come in the final chapter, so make sure to return for them.

You ought to know the drill by now. It is _vital _that if you leave a review, you give it some substance. I want to know _what _you thought and _why _you thought it, regardless if you think it's good or bad. Constructive criticism does wonders, folks!

--Velkyn Karma


	7. Epilogue: Relief

**Somewhere Around Nothing**

Part seven of a fanfiction by Velkyn Karma

Disclaimer: I do not own, or pretend to own, the _Fire Emblem _game series or any of its subsequent characters, plots or other ideas. That right belongs solely to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems. The only thing here that's mine is the idea for the story, and a few minor characters in the Black Fang outfit.

**A Note:** Apologies for the lateness of this final chapter. I'd like to say I did it intentionally for added suspense and all that jazz, but this would most unfortunately be lying. A combination of obscene amounts of homework and a lot of family problems delayed this, but here you are now! Enjoy the final installment.

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"When I do things without any explanation, but just with spontaneity...I can be sure that I am right."

_-_Henri Frederic Amiel

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"I don't understand," Eliwood murmured softly, looking out through the arches of their protective cavern at the morning dawn, spread crisp and undisturbed before them. His eyes searched the sky for traces of clouds, but there was not a one in sight. "What happened?"

Pent, standing wearily beside him, had been trying to decipher the answer to that question himself for some time now. He wished he had an answer to offer, a logical remark that would explain the situation away and make them safe once again. But the Mage-General had nothing, and something about their current situation struck him as highly unusual.

It had begun close to three o'clock in the morning, he had estimated. He and the other magic-users of Eliwood's army had been combining their forces for close to half an hour, pooling what remained of their exhausted resources to defend the members of their company. They were weary, and several looked ready to pass out once more under the strain; each shattering bolt that cracked close to their shields caused every one of them to flinch in tandem from the pressure.

But as the storm's strength began to mount, as its merciless power reigned down on the weakening children of magic, it suddenly _withdrew_. Just as abruptly as it had come, it pulled back on itself, collapsing under its own terrible power and leaving the bewildered spellcasters to slump tiredly to the ground.

Pent could not explain it. From what he had seen, it _looked_ as though the Bolting had been halted in mid-cast, cut off abruptly by its owner. The effects would have been devastating, causing a spell of that caliber to collapse on itself. No mage in his or her right mind would ever commit so foolish an action, which meant there was only one explanation: the spellcaster had died suddenly. But that was impossible; there was no reason for the man to simply keel over and die, and if he had allies in the storm it was doubtful they would attack him.

His thoughts twisted in full circle, his intelligent mind examining and reevaluating every piece of magical information he could recall, only to come to the same conclusion time and time again. There was something missing from the equation, and that lack of knowledge unsettled the Etrurian.

"Do you think it's a trap?" Eliwood continued, unaware of his companion's spinning thoughts. "Or is it safe to go out there?"

"I am not sure," Pent finally answered, speaking slowly. Louise stepped a little closer to give quiet support in his fatigue, and he gave her a soft smile before continuing. "I suppose it is entirely probable that it could be a trap," the magic user finally admitted, "but if so, it was just as dangerous for our enemies as it is for us now."

"What do you mean?" the young Pheraean asked, eyes narrowed in a light frown.

"To collapse a powerful spell like that is exceedingly dangerous," the Etrurian answered simply. "The caster would risk the spell backfiring and targeting himself and his allies instead."

"But you can't tell for sure from here? Whether or not it's a trap or just...finished."

Pent shook his head. "I cannot sense any flows of magic near us, especially in the storm's former direction. The caster could be dead, and unable to create spells, or he could be concealing his magic. I can still break such concealments, but only if I'm close enough, and his is too far a distance."

The new marquess gave a soft sigh, running one hand through his red hair as he did so. "Then no matter how much guessing and speculating we do, the only way we're going to get any answers is to send out a reconnaissance party."

The Mage-General nodded in agreement. "That would be my suggestion. Just be careful—even with the storm's collapse, it is still very possible that enemies could be out there, waiting. Take caution when deciding who to send." Eliwood nodded in agreement and turned to convene with Hector and Lyndis before making his decision.

In the end, it was agreed to send only a small party, as inconspicuous as possible, and both Heath and Pent were selected for the journey. Heath would be able to travel the air currents of Bern without being immediately attacked, and should the absence of the storm indeed be a trap, Pent would hopefully be able to protect both rider and wyvern until they could return to the safety of the caves.

Besides, Pent thought to himself, as he watched Heath guide the lumbering Hyperion free from the small cavern it had managed to cram itself into, the wyvern knight had reported his mount's growing restlessness in its cramped and unmoving shelter. And the last thing any of the army members wanted on top of their current collection of troubles was an increasingly agitated wyvern that needed dealing with.

Preparing for the scouting expedition would take a little time, Heath explained. The specially made saddle for the wyvern mounts was not designed for two human riders. While it did the job well enough in quick rescue missions, it was better to adjust it for two people in a long expedition.

So it was that Heath spent the next twenty minutes manipulating the complicated mass of straps and buckles that acted as a wyvern saddle, altering it for dual use. Pent watched in interest, having only a little experience with the great flying lizards and the technology related to them. But by the time Heath had declared the contraption perfected and began strapping the harness to his mount, the Mage-General could still make only the barest sense of it.

The wyvern knight noticed his interest and confusion, and explained as he attached the saddle to the patiently waiting Hyperion. "This is where I sit," he said, pointing to one section of the mass of leather while tightening a buckle carefully over the scaly gray skin. "And you'll sit here, just behind me. These straps--" he indicated a smaller collection of buckles, "--are used to bind your legs to the saddle. I've got them too. We use them for long flights and areas with very high turbulence, or in battles. The last thing you want is to lose your seat in an aerial maneuver when you're dodging an attack. And you can hold on to these straps to keep your balance when we move..." The lecture continued, Pent avidly keeping his attention trained on the new information, out of both interest and his own safety.

At last they were ready to depart, and Heath clambered up his mount's massive thigh like a sailor on a mast, perfectly and with ease. He extended his hand to help Pent up on top of the huge reptile as well, and the Etrurian managed fairly gracefully for his first wyvern flight, though he slipped somewhat clumsily on a few of Hyperion's scales. The creature hardly seemed to notice him.

"You may want to take off that cloak, sir," Heath suggested, as he began to help his passenger strap into the saddle. "The wind pressure once we're in the air will be very powerful." The magic user blinked in surprise, but nodded, unfastening the delicately enameled brooch at his throat and pulling his cloak free. He dropped both items into the arms of his wife, waiting patiently below next to the wyvern, and then returned to the involved process of getting into the saddle.

They finished up quickly, Heath slipping into his own saddle straps with the ease and routine of pulling on one's boots. Pent gave one last nod to Louise, who smiled back at him, and then with a sharp snap of the reins and a few precise clicks Hyperion stood and began moving forward.

The wyvern's gait was heavy and lumbering, and the Mage-General found it difficult to adjust to the swaying, thudding movement. He was far more used to horses, and much preferred them he decided, after several minutes of riding on wyvern-back through the sparse forest towards their destination (Hyperion needed a large enough clearing to take to the air). Heath, of course, seemed quite at home perched on the massive reptile's back, and swayed easily in a counter-movement to make the ride more comfortable. Pent did his best to imitate the knight and found that the wyvern's steps became a little more bearable.

They traveled for several minutes, until finally Hyperion poked his spine-frilled head from the trees, uttering a gentle growl that reverberated from beneath the riders and through their entire bodies. Heath seemed pleased however, and bent forward to pat the side of the creature's neck soothingly.

"We'll be taking off now, sir," he said to his passenger, turning his head to look at the magic user behind him as he spoke. "Since it's your first flight on wyvern-back, I suggest you hold on to something." Pent nodded, grabbing the straps that Heath had shown him earlier and wrapping them tightly around his hands.

"Ready?" the former soldier of Bern questioned. His fellow rider nodded, and he turned in his seat, gripping the reins strapped tightly around Hyperion's neck. "Then here we go!"

The leather reins snapped, gently but firmly, and the knight issued several sharp clicks in command. Almost at once Hyperion roared, his powerful call rolling over the scarred hilly plains and deep into the skies above, and his great leathery wings unfurled on either side of them, stretching to their limits. They were fantastic, absolutely massive, each bony finger-like digit ending in a wicked curved claw, and the muscles of the limbs rippled with barely contained energy beneath the gleaming scales that covered them.

Another firm snap of the reins and another series of clicking commands, and the wyvern was lumbering forward once more, but speedily now. Hyperion roared again, pleased to finally stretch his cramped muscles after days holed up in the string of caverns the army had sheltered in. His wings flapped now, powerful muscles straining as they built momentum, and his thundering gait sent his body swaying wildly in his sudden burst of speed. Pent found the entire thing extraordinarily uncomfortable, but hung on to the leather straps gamely; Heath was swaying with his mount's movement once more and seemed just as delighted as the unwinding beast.

And then, with a sudden jolt that sent the magic user's head nearly careening into the hard metal armor that Heath wore, the wyvern suddenly coiled its muscles and launched into the air with his powerful hind legs. Hyperion's wings flapped wildly, strained against the sudden pressure and weight they had been forced to support, and for one sickening moment they seemed to hover in midair, just waiting to collapse back to the ground below. But the wyvern knew the game of flight better than almost any other living creatures. With a sudden shift of wight and a powerful down thrust of his wings they rose completely into the air, and Hyperion made the sky his own.

The transition, Pent observed, was virtually instantaneous, as well as a surprise onto itself. The flying reptile had seemed so utterly clumsy on land, but as soon as it took to the air it gained a grace that the Mage-General would not have associated with the creature's size. While there was still a bouncing, swaying movement with each flap of the beast's wings, it seemed much more controlled and at home in the air than it ever had on the ground.

They were rising rapidly now, soaring up in lazy spirals over the pockmarked ground to gain altitude. Pent could see the ground falling away from him with an amazing amount of speed, and his hands dug almost unconsciously more firmly into the leather strap-holds he had been provided with.

Heath turned to look over his shoulder again, grinning with excitement. He was exhilarated to be in the air once more, to feel the wind whipping through his multi-colored hair, even if he was once more on a mission. "How are you doing back there, sir?" he asked politely, yelling at the top of his lungs to be heard over the rush of the wind and the powerful creaking flaps of Hyperion's leathery wings.  
"Well enough," Pent shouted back, his words ripped away almost immediately. Heath seemed to understand him however, because he nodded, even as he made minuscule adjustments with the reins.

"We'll head up another few hundred feet," Heath called back once more. "Once we reach the right altitude, we'll start searching the area."

"Why so high?" the Etrurian asked, tucking his long silver ponytail beneath the neck of his tunic with one hand as he spoke. The winds were already spectacular, and even more powerful thrusts were added with the buffeting of Hyperion's wingbeats, blowing his hair everywhere within a matter of seconds unless he kept it hidden. He was exceedingly grateful Heath had warned him not to take his cloak.

"It helps avoid being seen," the wyvern knight shouted back. "If we see something of interest we can go lower to check it out later. But it's best to avoid any detection if we can."

"Right." Pent's voice was growing hoarse from the shouting, and so he fell silent. His companion ceased to talk as well, focusing on both directing his mount and keeping a wary eye out below for anything of interest.

An hour passed them by, and then two, near silently but for the creaking of wyvern wings and the whipping winds smashing past them. Pent was beginning to feel chilled from the rushing winds about them, though he said nothing for now; he could go a little longer before he would need a break. He did not understand how Heath could stand the chill winds with his metal armor—surely the material would hold in the cold, and make it worse—but he supposed that it largely had to do something with his training as a wyvern knight. Hyperion did not seem at all disturbed by the chilly winds, and would occasionally growl in satisfaction as he soared through the air, a noise that the Etrurian did not so much hear as feel deeply beneath him.

It was not the cold that made their mission discouraging, however. Their inability to discover any important information was far more agitating to the Mage-General. Both riders had kept their eyes peeled on the ground far below, soaring over the massive scarred valley that the storm had caught them in days ago. Pent would occasionally point out a landmark that he found curious, but Heath, who had much sharper eyes from scouting by wyvernback, would often identify these 'suspicious' areas as deep holes or felled trees, and nothing more. The spellcaster had kept his own innate magics sharply attuned for any hints of concealed magic as well, but while he felt the slight residual remains of the storm so close to its creation point, he could discern no hidden magics waiting to attack. It was as if their enemy had vanished into thin air, and Pent did not like it.

He was just about to shake his head in frustration and order them to return when he spotted an unusual area on the ground. It looked tiny from their high altitude, just a splotch of barren, ash black far below them, but it struck him as odd all the same.

"What's that?" he shouted to Heath, pointing down at the area in question with one chilled finger.

The wyvern knight glanced down at the indicated area on the hilly plains and blinked. Pent waited for the now-customary "It's just a hole," or "that looks like a snapped tree," but neither came.

Instead, the green-and-silver haired man's eyes narrowed in concentration, and he spoke hesitantly. "It looks like...scorch marks? That doesn't seem right..." There was a slight snap of the reins, and Hyperion obediently began to circle over the black spot, sweeping around for another pass.

"They're definitely scorch marks," the knight said with a nod, after another few minutes. "Something burned there. But that doesn't seem right at all." Pent had to agree. Judging from the pockmarked condition of the plains, the lightning bolts had never burned, only dug huge gashes into the soil.

"Should we check it out?" Heath asked, glancing over his shoulder at his passenger.

The Etrurian hesitated a moment, but then nodded. "Yes. It might give us a clue as to what went on, and it's the first unusual thing we've found out here. Besides," he added, voice growing hoarse once more from the shouting, "the residual magic around this area is very strong. The spellcaster must have been close by at one point."

"Yes, sir. Hold on tight, descending is a little rough for first-timers." And with another series of practiced maneuvers with the leather reins he gave his commands. Hyperion roared once more and began to spiral downward rapidly. Within a few minutes the ground had rushed up painfully close, and with a series of powerful backthrusts with its wings and one altogether agonizing jolt, the wyvern landed, coming to all fours once again.

It took him several seconds to reorient himself after the landing, but then Pent looked around, benefiting now from his high perch on the flying reptile's back. Every inch of the land around him for almost a quarter of a mile was solid, charred black. There were hardly any remains to indicate what had happened, but as the Mage-General's eyes continued to roam he spotted a few tell-tale pieces of evidence. A few posts and a metal wheel, probably the remains of a wagon, were flopped unceremoniously a few feet away, and a few broken steel weapons littered the ground here and there.

"This was a camp," Pent said slowly, after a little more observation. He looked this way and that, but could find little evidence of anyone living that had remained behind.

"It looks like that, sir," Heath said in agreement, also looking around carefully. His hand strayed almost involuntarily to the javelin strapped carefully to the saddle, though there did not appear to be any need to use it.

"Let's look around a little bit," the Etrurian suggested. He wished he could get down and stretch his legs in the process, but the complicated mess of straps keeping him firmly in the saddle would take too long to remove and replace, and so he did not suggest it. Hyperion walked for them instead, his clumsy swaying gait sweeping them back and forth, though this time Pent was more used to it.

They found little more of interest, other than a few remains of tent poles, other wagons, and some supplies that would not easily burn. Judging from the way they debris was scattered, Heath estimated that the camp, whomever it had belonged to, was roughly the size of theirs. Whoever they were, those that had not died had left in a hurry.

But the camp had not been there before the storm arrived—of that, Heath was certain. And it did not seem possible that the storm had caused the fire. Something strange was going on here, and Pent intended to find out what.

Yet for now, there was little else they could do. There was no more information to find out here, no magic to trace to an enemy. They had seen no signs of anyone or anything living out here apart from themselves, ally or enemy alike. The only option they had left was to return to the camp, deliver their results, and discuss their next step.

"We'll head back now," Pent said firmly, giving the burned camp one last look over. "There's nothing else we can do here."

Heath nodded. "Yes, sir." He clicked again for the wyvern, and Hyperion leaped into the sky once more, soaring high with his riders and the message they bore.

------

Close to two hours later, Nino could be found sitting just outside the largest of the caverns on a little stump, staring helplessly in the direction of the plains.

She was exhausted, and knew she should rest more. While the scouting expedition had been underway she had slept, regaining her strength after the draining process of creating the magical shields. But it really wasn't enough to restore her normal youthful, energetic nature, and she instinctively knew that more rest was absolutely necessary.

But Nino couldn't let herself sleep. Not now. Not after the scouting party had returned with that news...

Her mind flashed back almost immediately to the arrival of Heath and Pent two hours before. She had woken eagerly upon hearing the returning wyvern's call, anxious for news of Jaffar, and had trotted over to the Lords' cavern to hear the report. Pent had explained about an unusual discovery: a burned campsite out in the plains that had not been there before the storm. He suspected the spellcaster had been there at one point—perhaps the camp even consisted of his allies—but could not explain the destruction.

"_If the camp belonged to whoever was attacking us,_" Nino remembered saying cheerfully, _"then maybe Jaffar stopped them! And he's coming back now, right?"_

But Pent had shaken his head and, with an understanding, saddened look in her direction, he reported finding no living humans out on the plains.

She was shocked. He had to be lying. Or just mistaken—maybe he missed seeing them. Jaffar certainly couldn't be dead. He was Jaffar. He couldn't die, not ever! He would be coming up the path in just a little while now, ready to come back to her side and be her closest friend once more. She was sure of it, and she would wait for him.

But after two hours had passed and the assassin still remained painfully absent from the path leading to their caverns, she was beginning to loose hope. Maybe he really hadn't...maybe he was...

_No! _Nino reprimanded herself sharply. _I can't think like that...not now. Not now..._but even as she tried to reassure herself, her strength began to give out, and she slumped more and more heavily on her tiny stump.

"Nino?" came a soft voice beside her, and the young spellcaster looked up into Lyn's dark teal eyes. The Lady looked concerned. "Are you okay?"

"He'll come back," Nino whispered softly. "Won't he?"

"Of course he will," Lyn answered confidently. "Jaffar is a survivor. You know that better than anyone." Her concerned look returned. "But Nino...you look exhausted. You should come into the cave and get some rest."

"No...I should stay here. I want to wait for Jaffar."

The Lady of Caelin shook her head. "You're loosing your strength with every moment you sit out here. You need to rest. Just think—Jaffar would be very upset if he found you wasting away on his account. He wants you to be safe."

Nino looked up at her tiredly. "Do you think so?"

Lyndis smiled. "Of course. He risked everything in that storm to make sure you were safe. I don't know him that well, but I'm sure that he wouldn't be happy if he tried hard to protect you, and you made yourself sick out here in return." The Sacaen was not entirely sure how true her words were—Jaffar was an amazingly difficult human to read after all—but from the way he constantly stayed by Nino's side she was sure she was close.

"R-right. I'll rest then." Nino nodded slowly in agreement and stood a little shakily, brushing off her trim white skirt. She glanced back once more at the pathways, but they still remained empty and unrevealing, and with a sorrowful look she walked slowly back to the caves, Lyndis at her side.

Another hour passed, and then another. Nino managed to fall into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning while Lyn stroked her green curls soothingly. Outside Eliwood and Hector were discussing their next move with the tactician, Marcus, Oswin, and Erk, who was presently acting as their magical advisor in lieu of the finally resting Pent. The camp was more active now, but an air of uncertainty hovered over them, dark as the clouds that had threatened them not a day previously.

Thus it was entirely possible that, with the distractions resting heavily in the air about them, the movements nearby went, at first, unnoticed.

In the end, it was Kent and Sain who noticed them first. Both Knights of Caelin were presently on guard duty, some ways down the path at the fringes of the mountain woods. Their horses were tethered to low-hanging branches and munched absently on what grass they could find, and the knights, currently dismounted, waited alongside the path. Or rather, Kent waited, and mostly for Sain to cease and desist his high spirited rambling about some woman or other (Kent never paid attention to the names anymore).

He was just beginning to wonder if it would be possible to conveniently 'lose' the emerald knight in the woods upon their return, when he spotted them—shadows, slipping quietly around the hills of the plains and the deep gorges carved into their sides by the unnatural magical lightning. Frowning slightly, he narrowed his eyes to focus his vision, trying to find the elusive movements once more in the late afternoon light.

There they were again! And closer this time, too. They were moving steadily forward towards the path that both he and Sain stood on. Was it a hint of enemy movement, come to attack them at a moment of weakness? Almost unconsciously Kent's hand tightened on the sword hilt at his hip; beside him, Sain's chattering ceased at his friend's movements, and the emerald knight's stance shifted to support the lance in his gloved hands better.

And then the shadows detached from the safety of the plains, beginning to move slowly up the path towards them, and the redheaded knight could not help but gasp in shock. There was no mistaking that red cloaked man, or the hooded figure beside him, though he wondered how they had possibly concealed themselves so well in the plains just moments before.

"Sain," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving the approaching figures.

"I see them," the other knight answered, sounding incredulous. "Where in the name of the goddess did they come from? That's like out of a story--"

"Forget the stories," Kent cut him off. "Ride back to camp and tell them to have the healers ready. I think they're injured." Sain nodded in response, and was thundering up the path on his energetic mount within seconds.

The redhead mounted his own horse and trotted forward to meet the pair, his sharp eyes observing them carefully. Both had wrapped themselves securely in their cloaks, but the knight could easily spot the fatigue on their faces, the blood on their clothing. And there was something else odd about the pair...but Kent could not quite place it.

And then, as they approached his horse, he realized exactly what was wrong. He had never seen the thief or assassin in such close proximity without feeling a tension between them, or seeing a gleam of hatred on Matthew's face. But there was no open hatred now, only fatigue and--what was it--a guarded acceptance, perhaps? Whatever it was, it seemed out of place, but not unfavorable.

"Are you both well?" Kent asked as they came closer, though even the knight could see that the answer was an obvious 'no.' Sure enough, Matthew only gave him an exhausted look in response, and Jaffar ignored him completely.

"The camp is not too far ahead," the knight continued, allowing his horse to walk beside them slowly as they went up the path. "The healers should be ready at any moment. Just a little further." He was concerned for them, now. That worn look that Matthew had given him made the knight question just how much longer the two could keep themselves going.

But Matthew only gave a tired nod in response, and showed no signs of stopping as the three continued up the path. Kent observed silently that the thief had distanced himself several paces from Jaffar as soon as the two met up with him, but the action seemed unconscious, bore no hostility. Still wondering what possibly could have happened to the two while out in that magical storm, Kent led the way quietly to the camp.

Eliwood's army was astir with activity when the three entered the cave-based encampment, and many of its members were waiting for the new arrivals. Matthew and Jaffar had barely stepped into camp when they were approached by Serra and Priscilla, staves raised and glowing with holy light as their prayers for healing were accepted. Both subdued quietly, but neither responded to the exclamations of surprise over their extensive injuries; Jaffar's right arm was practically immobile and hung limp, while Matthew's leg appeared to have suffered a deep stab wound so grim looking it was feat that he could walk on it at all.

But after an extensive healing session, in which none but the healers and magic-users were allowed close to either man, for fear of inhibiting the process, the two men of shadow were finally pronounced well enough to be released. "Although," Serra warned them, a scowl on her face and hands on her hips, "I'm keeping an eye on you until _I _say you're fully recovered!"

The two nodded, too weary to argue, and without a further glance at each other stumbled off in different directions. Jaffar moved forward slowly, eyes scanning the army members for a flash of green hair, a cheerful smile. He needed to see Nino again, to reassure himself that all his troubles had not been in vain, that she was safe...

There was a hint of movement among the watching army members as someone shoved through their mass, and then Nino leaped free of them in a whirlwind of speed, her short trim cloak flying out behind her as she darted forward. "Jaffar!" she all but squealed, throwing her arms around him without hesitation, a massive smile on her face that overpowered even the tears in her crystal-blue eyes. "I'm so glad to see you again! I was so worried, I thought maybe you got hurt or...but you're okay, you're okay!" She tightened her arms around his waist in a fierce hug, as though afraid of being separated from him again. Jaffar seemed surprised by the rushing physical contact, but after a few moments put his arm tentatively, quietly, around her.

Nino held on for a few more moments, but finally let go, pushing away slightly to look up at her best friend's face. "You have to tell me what happened!" she said excitedly. "What you did out there, and how you made it, and why you were with Mr. Matthew when you came back, and so many other things! But, oh," she murmured suddenly, staring up at his fatigued expression. "You look so tired...maybe you should rest first. We have a lot of caves here, you can rest in one of those!" Grabbing his gloved hand—another physical touch that surprised Jaffar, but did not really unsettle him—the young spellcaster turned and began to pull him in the direction of the largest cave.

And froze, for Hector was standing at the mouth of the cavern, speaking to an exhausted looking Matthew before him. The lord glanced up in her direction as he caught their movement, and while he gave Nino little more than a casual glance, the look of hatred in his eyes as he glared over her shoulder at Jaffar sent chills down her spine.

"...Nino?" came the soft voice behind her, cracking slightly from fatigue. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she answered hastily. "Actually, I know a smaller cave that we can go to, it's quieter so you can get more rest. I bet you're really tired after being out in that scary storm!" Grabbing Jaffar's wrist more firmly, she led him off in the desired direction, glancing over her shoulder one last time a little nervously in the direction of the Ostian lord.

Hector noticed the glance, and raised an eyebrow in confusion, but said nothing. He disliked the assassin's return—he had been hoping in part that the murderer would die out there, in the storm—but he had more pressing matters to deal with. Turning back to his agent, he questioned once more, "so you are absolutely sure there are no more enemies out there?"

"Positive," came the short reply. "There are no more mages. The bolting spell is finished."

Hector frowned. "What were you two _doing _out there? Pent and Heath brought us reports of a burned camp at least the size of ours, but there's no way--"

"If we could leave this interview for a few hours, milord," Matthew cut him off tiredly, and Hector became suddenly aware of his spy's weariness. Mat's muscles seemed to be trembling with the exertion of standing alone. The Ostian noble wondered for a moment when the last time the thief had slept was. Probably not recently.

"Right," he agreed, nodding. "You can give your report later, after you've rested. Take it easy for now—that's an order."

"Thank you, milord," the spy murmured under his breath, so softly it could barely be heard. There was not a trace of cheery sarcasm, and Hector frowned again. Even if Matthew's antics _were _annoying, without them Matthew just wasn't..._Matthew. _

He watched as the spy stumbled past him, noting the dark, rusty stains that covered his clothing, the numerous holes and slashes torn in his breeches and cloak. Whatever had happened out there, it had done a number on him..._both _of them, Hector admitted with a grimace.

Matthew was unaware of the observations being made of him. In fact, he was unaware of almost everything, beyond the dull throbbing in his head that screamed at him, over and over, for rest. The thief stumbled to the back of the cave—how he managed even that was a mystery—and curled up on the ground, wrapping his cloak around him without bothering to find a blanket. He was deeply asleep within a minute, his breathing quiet and even as the bustle of the camp passed him by, undisturbed.

And so the rest of the day passed in an eerie calm, with the camp members both elated and disturbed at the unexpected, but welcome return of their comrades.

-----

The next afternoon found Eliwood's army still camped in their string of mountain caves, a day of rest declared for all. The bolting storm, while no longer in existence, still left traces of low spirits and tired bodies among them, and Eliwood had judged it best to allow his company an extra day to recover.

Already the day of rest was proving itself useful, and many of the army members were benefiting from the break. Their spirits had already risen considerably with the return of their missing companions, and by the next morning it seemed everyone would have recovered from the terrible stress of their ordeal once more.

Matthew, upon waking that morning, had dutifully given his report in full detail to the lords and lady. The three had been amazed with his story and questioned him extensively on the mission he and Jaffar had shared while the thief partook of the thickest, most hearty stew he could come across.

But Jaffar had not been needed since, and apart from being hunted down in mid-morning by an altogether cross Serra (checking up on his health, as she had warned him), no one had come looking for the assassin. Nino had cheerfully fetched both of their breakfasts in the morning, and had kept him company in the smaller cave they had rested in the night previously, asking about his adventures out in the storm. He had seen no one else.

He was glad, for it gave him time to think. In between Nino's cheerful talk (often one-sided, though he listened dutifully to everything she said) she would sit beside him quietly for hours, instinctively understanding his desire for peace and quiet. And in those seemingly vast stretches of silence, he found his thoughts searching, wandering, slipping back to the last moments of that fight...

_They plunged into the nightmare blackness of the storm, dodging and weaving wildly on inner instinct and cunning alone to avoid being struck down by the terrifying might of the thunderbolts. He was only dimly aware of Matthew beside him, ducking and dodging as well. More than once he had felt his ally's hands reach out to grab his arm or shoulder or cloak, dragging him aside just in time to avoid being struck by the terrible lighting or off-flung shrapnel, and he instinctively returned the favor without thinking. Enmity mattered little now; all that mattered was survival. _

_But after what had felt like hours they finally freed themselves from the collapsed core of the bolting storm, leaping from that deadly blackness to the natural, star-encrusted night. It was a goddess-sent relief to pass into the world of true shadows once more; even the air felt different, cleaner, safer. They would not turn back for anything. _

_In silence they made their way towards the mountains, now visible in the soft moonlight and gleaming stars, with no screaming winds and thunderous bolts to block their view. They moved quietly, limping and stumbling over the scarred hilly plains, aware of each other's presence but saying nothing. _

_The sun began to rise, hours later, another blessed sight. Within the eye of the storm the sun had felt sickly, screened, as though being blocked by an invisible force. Now it was powerful, warm, exuding brilliance; a welcome sight, even if it did banish the cooling, sheltering shadows. Ever wary, the two men of shadow began to cluster close to the deep gashes that the bolts had left behind in the hilly ground, concealing themselves as much as possible from any eyes. It would not do to take chances now, especially with the both of them so vulnerable._

_They traveled in such a way for another few hours, avoiding visibility as much as possible. At one point Matthew's keen eyes had spotted a tiny speck in the sky above them, and they crept into one of the deep gouges in the ground hastily, hoping they had not been spotted. If they were fortunate it would be only a bird, but both were perfectly aware that they were in wyvern country, and they knew they would die if they were attacked now._

_But the spot flew on and vanished, and after a little while they dragged themselves from their tiny shelter and continued to stumble along, hiding as best as possible. This silence, too, had allowed Jaffar to think, and he had methodically contemplated their recent events, until finally he broke the silence with an observation. "...You killed him..."_

_Matthew paused, panting slightly as he rested from a particularly painful scramble over the last hill. "What?"_

_"You killed Arellen..."_

_"Yeah," Matthew agreed, scowling a little. "I did. Thank you for reminding me!"_

_Jaffar did not feel threatened by the scowl, and continued. "You attacked him from behind..."_

_Matthew narrowed his eyes. "What are you implying, Jaffar?"_

_There was silence for a moment as the assassin slid around a particularly large gouge in the earth, and then he spoke again. "The vitals that you targeted, with my dagger and yours...they were very precise...professional...no inexperienced man could have achieved that kill so perfectly..."_

_Matthew flinched, and treated the assassin to such a glare that the amber of his eyes seemed to boil with hatred. But Jaffar met his eyes evenly, and after an intense few moments, the thief dropped his gaze. The animosity seemed to melt from him, to be replaced only a sullen fatigue, and the spy muttered slowly, "Like you said before...I've done some unspeakable things in Ostia's name." And he turned away, not speaking again for the remainder of their journey. _

The assassin's mind returned to the present, suddenly aware of Nino's head resting limply on his shoulder. The girl had fallen asleep sitting next to him, and she was now leaning against him. Keeping perfectly still so as not to wake her, he allowed his mind to drift back to those last few words from Matthew.

Was it possible that they were more alike than he thought? He was not sure what to think of it. while logically speaking, Matthew's station as a spy would put him in a similar line of work to his own (he supposed), he could not envision the hot-headed Ostian as similar to himself at all. The man hated him far too passionately, disliked his line of work far too much, and took every opportunity to scream at him for being a "murderer." If he hated such actions so much, how could he possibly accept having the skills of a professional assassin? Unless, perhaps, this _was _his reason for hating Jaffar's status as a man-killer? To the assassin, it was a revolutionary idea. Perhaps this was yet another aspect of feeling...one that he did not understand yet.

There was too much he did not understand.

There was a soft flutter of cloth above him, and Jaffar's free hand, not laden with the weight of Nino's body, flew to his dagger immediately as he raised his head.

Matthew was standing before him, one hand on his sheathed silver dagger, staring down at him with a dark expression on his face.

"Jaffar," he intoned, his voice cold and flat. The assassin said nothing, only stared up at him quietly, and the thief continued in a low hiss. "You know what I'm here for."

Jaffar nodded, again silently. His slight movement caused Nino to shift ever so slightly, and she blinked sleepily, raising her head. "Jaffar? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered simply, never taking his eyes from the thief standing in front of them.

She blinked again, and her gaze rested on the Ostian in surprise. "Mr. Matthew! What are you doing here? I thought..." her voice trailed off, and she looked between the two men of shadow in confusion.

Matthew ignored her. "Our alliance is finished," he said simply, still glaring down at Jaffar coldly. "Until we returned to camp...that was as long as it lasted."

"Yes."

"And you remember my promise, don't you?" Matthew's voice was threatening, bore a low growl, but remained chillingly cold.

Jaffar nodded again. "For the girl...Leila."

The thief twitched slightly, shocked that the assassin had remembered her name at all, but he concealed his surprise well. "Good. Then you really _do _know why I'm here." And without waiting further, the dagger in his hand began to slide from its sheath, silvery blade glinting in the afternoon light.

Nino yelped in surprise and looked between the two urgently. "Wh...what's going on? You're not going to fight, are you?!"

"Yes." Jaffar made to stand, but Nino gripped his arm fearfully.

"Y...you can't fight!"

"...I must."

"But why?" the young spellcaster looked frightened now, her eyes widened in fearful surprise as she clung still harder to the assassin's arm.

"...because he made a promise..."

"But his promise has nothing to do with you!" Nino said, trembling. "Please don't fight!"

"I thought..." The assassin paused, collecting his thoughts as he stood against Nino's will. "I thought it had little to do with me, at first..." he said slowly. "Merely an...order to kill, perhaps...I did not understand it...but I think I do understand, now..." His mind flashed back to the beginning of their latest ordeal, huddled in that miserable excuse for a cave with the Ostian who now stood before them. _"__Can't blame me very much then, can you, Jaffar? You would do the same thing in my position."_ And, Jaffar knew, he would. Matthew had been absolutely right.

"I cannot stop him from trying to fulfill his promise..." the assassin finished, his gloved hands dropping to rest calmly on the hilts of his blood-red daggers.

"B...but you can't fight him!" Nino trembled, throwing her arms around him in a weak hug, her last attempt to hold him back. "You c-can't...you'll get hurt, and you only just came back...and I don't want anyone to get hurt anymore...p-please don't fight him!" But Jaffar only began to quietly remove her arms from his waist. He seemed strangely calm, completely unconcerned for Nino's safety, as if he knew she would suffer no injury.

Matthew watched coldly, dispassionately, tapping the silver dagger against its sheath in impatience. His calculating amber eyes flicked back and forth between the two, observing the assassin's quiet, reserved manner in which he accepted the fight to the death, watching the girl's now-tearful pleas to avoid bloodshed and remain safe. The weapon tapped again, and again, the thief's utterly cold, utterly brutal stare passed over them once more, and with a firm grip to the dagger hilt he made his swift decision.

The sharp _crack _caused Nino to jump in horrified surprise, squeeze her eyes shut against the carnage she was sure to see. And then...

"Forget it."

She opened her eyes slowly in confusion, glanced over at Matthew, and...stared. The thief had snapped his dagger back into its sheath so heavily it had created a resonating _crack,_ and he was now looking Jaffar straight in the eye, his expression still flat but, she thought, not quite so tinged with ice as before.

Jaffar blinked, showing perhaps the most surprise she had ever seen in him before. "...What?"

"I said forget it. I'm calling it off...this time, anyway."

Jaffar's eyes narrowed slightly in what was possibly confusion, though the shadows cast by his cowl made it difficult to read him well. "...Your reasoning is well founded...you have every reason to attack me...I would do the same, just as you said..."

"I don't have to explain myself to _you,_" Matthew snapped, his fingers tapping the dagger hilt in anger. "I said forget it, so _forget it._" His gaze swept over the two of them once again, and for the fraction of a second that their eyes met Nino thought she could see bitterness in them...but also understanding. And then the gaze was gone, glaring instead at Jaffar once more.

"...I do not understand this..."

"Not much to understand," Matthew snapped again. "I'm still not going to forgive you for what you've done. I will _never _forget that, Jaffar, as long as I live, and you had better never forget either, or I _will _kill you." His glare remained hard, but his voice softened. "But I'm _not _going to turn into you, either. No matter what." His amber eyes narrowed, flicking to Nino for the barest of seconds, and his fingers tapped the dagger hilt again. "So just forget it." And without warning the thief spun, slipping away from the cave in a ghostlike silence.

He was nearly out of view before he paused, turned, and stepped back towards them a few paces. "By the way," he muttered, his voice sounding grudging but somehow sincere, "thanks...for saving my life out there a few times. I've repaid my debt in full, of course. But even so...well, I wouldn't have expected it from _you._" The Ostian hesitated, fixed the assassin with a flat look, and then turned once more, departing completely.

Jaffar stared after the thief for some time in confusion, unable to decipher exactly what had happened. Matthew had _every _right to attack him, he supposed. He would have stopped at nothing to avenge Nino's death, halted at nothing to rip the murderer's life from him agonizingly slowly. What had changed the spy's mind? Why would he _want _to change his mind, especially with such an opportunity? Slowly he sat down at the mouth of the cave once more, staring into midair aimlessly as he tried to grasp this new concept of human actions, emotions.

Nino was silent for some time as well, but finally she sat down beside him again, leaning against his shoulder. After a few moments, she smiled in the direction the thief had taken, and said softly, "You know, Mr. Matthew made me a little nervous at first, but...he's really not such a bad man, is he?"

"..No," Jaffar said slowly in agreement. "He isn't..." Strange...this ability to _feel _thathis fellow man so desired, worshiped, that he in turn tried so desperately to understand, was ever changing, all the more confusing and complex...but somehow, all the more desirable for it.

Perhaps he was more than an Angel of Death after all, perhaps there was more to him than killing and darkness that people beyond even Nino's purity and light could see.

Perhaps he was human, too.

-----

AND that's a wrap. It feels so strange, coming to the end, but at the same time it's kind of a neat feeling.

For those of you wishing that Jaffar and Matthew would become the _bestest friends ever, _sorry, but no go. While I can imagine them coming to terms with each other as wary allies, I cannot envision them being any more than that. So that's how I wrote it.

Again, major apologizes for the supreme lateness of this chapter. As I stated before, lots of classwork has been getting in my way (lesson learned: college is a bitch!) and it's been impossible to focus on writing. I have several other ideas set aside and jotted down as well, including another _Rekka no Ken _themed story, and a one-shot planned for _Path of Radiance _(We Like Ike! shot ) but for now it's all a matter of having the _time _to write it all down. Which, at present, there isn't much of. Never fear, I'll get to it during Thanksgiving and Winter breaks...so just hold on tight in the meantime!

A final pair of questions: How many of you are familiar with _Apocalyptica, _to know where the titles for this story and its chapters come from? And, how many of you actually read the quotes I put at the beginnings of each chapter?

And now, for our usual routine...if you leave a review, _kindly _leave some substance in it. Tell me what you liked about this fic, or what you didn't like. What worked for you, what could have been done better? I enjoy getting good feedback of all kinds!

I hope you enjoyed this fic, because I sure enjoyed writing it.


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